


The Prince and the Revolutionary

by AccidentalAvenger



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Coming Out, F/M, Grantaire is a Prince, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Multi, Royalty in hiding in New York, hiding from Patron-Minette as terrorists, non-binary chararcter, of a made-up European country
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-23 06:54:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 39,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2538362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AccidentalAvenger/pseuds/AccidentalAvenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Three normal, French college students on a gap year in New York"</p>
<p>That's what Grantaire, Eponine and Jehan are supposed to be, anyway. They aren't - they really aren't.<br/>In fact, they're European Royalty hiding from an extremely dangerous terrorist group who are out to kill them. Of course now is best time for a tight-knit group of political activists, several journeys of self-discovery and falling in love. </p>
<p>A story about how a lie can sometimes become more real than the truth, and how the truth can be very dangerous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Prince and the Revolutionary

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [The Prince and the Revolutionary | 王子与革命者](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10945431) by [La_Lumiere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/La_Lumiere/pseuds/La_Lumiere)



> So here it is! After several months, many changes and lots of panicking it is finished! When text is in italics it's a different language from the rest of the dialogue.  
> The wonderful art is all done by Maria who is at peskybanana.tumblr.com
> 
> I swear the fic is better than the summary.

"Fuck yes! We did it!" crowed Grantaire, throwing open one of the many hotel windows, "Welcome to New York City!"

Eponine gave a whoop as she twirled round the hotel room, pulling off the designer sunglasses and scarf she had been wearing for the last eight hours and tossing them on the floor. There was a pop as Jehan opened the bottle of champagne they had brought on the way to the hotel. Grantaire yelled as the cold spray of liquid hit the back of neck and he spun round, picking up one of the ridiculously ornate cushions from the sofa beside him and throwing it at Jehan. It hit the smaller boy right on the head, messing up his carefully styled auburn hair.

Jehan put the bottle down on the artistic, but not particularly practical coffee table and tilted his head slowly in a very threatening manner. Carefully he knelt down and picked up the cushion, not taking his eyes off Grantaire as he did. He rose slowly, Eponine and Grantaire holding their breaths. He waited until he was standing tall to speak, slowly and steadily.  
"You did not just do that," there was a long pause as Grantaire did not deny or confirm anything before Jehan screeched, "It's on, motherfucker!" before throwing himself towards Grantaire, cushion raised in attack.

Grantaire grabbed a cushion and used it to deflect Jehan's attack, laughing hard as he hit at the other boy in return. Eponine grabbed another cushion and joined in, delivering a well-aimed blow to the back of Grantaire's head. The bottle of champagne sat forgotten on the coffee-table – strangely adult in the midst of a childish pillow-fight.

As Eponine and Jehan both viciously attacked Grantaire he tried to fight back but failed. Finally, after several minutes of sustained attack by ornate couch cushions, Grantaire fell to his knees, dramatically dropping his cushion and proclaiming, "Alright, alright! I surrender!"

After a couple of last hits Jehan and Eponine also dropped their cushions and fell to the floor beside him, giggling. The three lay on the clean, cream carpet sniggering. Occasionally it seemed like they were about to stop but one of them would snort loudly, sending all three of them back into hysterics. The three were already drunk on victory.

Eventually Grantaire struggled into a sitting position and leaned over Jehan's stomach to the coffee table to reach the champagne. Holding up the champagne bottle he said in mock-seriousness, "A toast to us. And to New York." He slurped from the bottle and coughed at the bubbles went up his nose. Eponine grabbed the bottle from him, "To our families, back home in Lithicona. You know, the ones who have no fucking idea we're here."

Jehan and Grantaire laughed in delight as she also took a swig from the bottle before passing it to Jehan who took it reverently. He held it up and tilted his chin up, pausing seriously before announcing dramatically, "To not giving a fuck. To the three musketeers and the numbered days we have in this city of dreams."

Eponine and Grantaire clapped as he sipped from the bottle and proclaimed, "It tastes of fallen stars and dreams!"  
"Should we get glasses?" asked Eponine as Jehan took another gulp.  
"Where's the fun in that?" replied Grantaire incredulously, snatching the bottle back from Jehan who leant back on the plush carpet and discarded cushions.  
"I like it here," he said decisively, looking up at the ceiling of their hotel suite, "It's a shame we've only got a few days before our parents drag us back kicking and screaming but from what I've seen of New York, I think it's going to be worth it."  
"Calm down, we haven't seen anything yet," Grantaire told him, handing the bottle to Eponine and lying beside his friend.

"Yeah, speaking of tourist stuff – we've got a limited amount of time - we should figure out what to do!" shouted Eponine waving the champagne dangerously over Grantaire and Jehan. They rolled away giggling slightly as a few drops fell on them, drunk on excitement rather than the champagne itself.  
"Metropolitan Museum of Art is the top of my list!" said Grantaire and Jehan hummed in agreement.  
"Yeah, but you'll spend hours in that. Let's see some of the other big sites first," whined Eponine but Grantaire swatted her leg.  
"I'm the King, you do what I say and I say the Museum."  
"You're not the King," said Eponine sticking her tongue out at him.  
"Not yet. But I'm still closer than you!"  
"Children, children!" interrupted Jehan, "Stop fighting! I agree with Eponine anyway, visit the main stuff first and then you can spend as mu-"

He was cut off by a phone ringing. Grantaire sat up quickly and the three stared at each other, eyes wide.  
"Oh crap," swore Eponine, suddenly quiet.  
"Should I answer?" asked Grantaire, pulling the ringing mobile out of his pocket.  
"No!" exclaimed Eponine in a whisper, just as Jehan exclaimed, "Yes!"

Grantaire shrugged and put the phone to his ear. There was a click as the connection was made and the panicked voice of Javert, the Captain of the Royal Guard spoke into his ear, "Grantaire, where the hell are you?"

"Put it on speaker!" hissed Jehan, propped up on his elbows and Grantaire obliged.  
Javert's voice came out loud and more insistent this time.  
"Grantaire! Where are you?"  
"Now, now. That would be telling," said Grantaire, his tone teasing, “But I have to say that this will be a… Royal mess for you.” Eponine stifled a laugh and threw the cushion at him. There was an irritated and worried sigh from Javert who continued talking, his tone desperate.  
"This is serious, don't mess around. Wherever you are, are you safe? Is that Jean Prouvaire and Eponine Thenardier with you?"  
Grantaire rolled his eyes and spoke deliberately slowly into the phone.  
"Of course I'm safe! And yes, of course I'm with Jehan and ‘Ponine. Who else would I be with? Now I'm sure you've prepared a huge lecture about how irresponsible it was of us to disappear and abandon our 'extremely important' royal duties and how worried everyone has been but, to be completely honest with you, none of us give a fuck. So if you have nothing else to say, we shall part ways and Jehan, ‘Ponine and I will enjoy our undoubtedly too-short-time away from Carroa and our parents. See you in a week or so!"

Grantaire went to hang up but Javert's voice stopped him.  
"You don't know," he said in a disbelieving tone. Grantaire paused.  
"Don't know what?" he asked cautiously. For possibly the first time Grantaire had ever heard, Javert didn't sound angry. Instead he sounded slightly sad and very worried. It was the tone that made him pause, even though Jehan and Eponine were desperately gesturing for him to hang up.  
"Grantaire - and Jean Prouvaire, if he can hear me," began Javert before he stopped and sighed tiredly, "I am so sorry to tell you this but I'm afraid your parents are dead."

The three teenagers in New York stared horrified at the phone Grantaire heard, desperately hoping they had misheard.  
"What?" choked out Grantaire, his hand shaking. Jehan looked pale, skin colourless in contrast to his bright red hair.  
"A terrorist group called the Patron-Minette has emerged, acting against the Royal Family of Lithicona. Obviously, as King, your father was the main target. About two hours ago, as your father and the Earl and Countess of Munet-Bruyeres were being driven to a conference a bomb exploded as the car passed over it. Your father and Jean's parents were killed instantly."  
"No! No!" shouted Jehan, his hands curled into fists and his voice coloured with disbelief but Grantaire couldn't speak. He was too shocked.

He had never been close to his father. King Andre of Lithicona had always been a strong yet distant figure, kept away from his motherless-son by politics and the problems of running a country. It wasn't that he had been cruel, just absent. Even when Grantaire had entered his rebellious phase a few years ago at 13, the King had always been kind but firm; scolding Grantaire for the many, many ‘incidents’ and gently reminding him that one day Grantaire would have to be King. Grantaire had never really believed that day would come so soon.

Jehan had not been much closer to his parents, the Earl and Countess of Munet-Bruyeres as they were two of the main advisors to the King. Of course they had been travelling with him in that car; they were always with him. It was how Jehan and Grantaire had first become friends, so many years ago. Grantaire had known Jehan's parents for as long as he could remember and the thought that three of the most constant, although distant figures in his life were dead was impossible to understand.

"I'm so sorry, Jean," said Javert emotionlessly, "You can imagine our panic when we couldn't find you anywhere in the palace. We thought Patron-Minette might have kidnapped you three but they have just released a statement that they will do whatever they can to kill Grantaire. All three of you are in terrible danger and you need to tell me where you are!"

All three were silent for a moment. Grantaire didn't think he could breath, his throat was constricting but at the same time something was forcing its way up through it, choking him doubly. He wanted to scream, to reply, to say something, but there was no air. He was drowning in his tsunami of emotions but he was paralysed, unable to swim.

It was Eponine who replied, her voice shaking and unsure as she half-whispered, "We're in New York."  
There were several moments of silence before Javert exploded. "You're in New York?!" he shouted in disbelief, "Your country is falling apart, you are all in deadly danger and you're in New York?!"  
The anger in Javert's tone shook Jehan out of his shock. "We didn't know this would happen!" he shouted back, half-angry, half-tearful, "It was a joke, I guess - we didn't realise that our parents would, would die. How could we know?"  
Javert let out a frustrated growl in response, which was probably the closest Grantaire had ever heard the Captain of the Royal Guard admitting someone was right.  
"I have a press-conference in half an hour dealing with the crisis. If you watch it, it will answer most of your questions. I'll phone you again as soon as I can and sort out what we're going to do. To be honest with you, I really don't know. The monarchy is on grave danger and the heir to the throne is a drunken teenage boy with an authority complex who has run away to America. Like there wasn't already enough on our plates. I'm very sorry about your father, and Jean - your parents as well. They were good people but for now there is very little I can do. Don't leave the hotel room or let anyone know who you are until I call again."

There was a click as the phone call ended and the phone slipped out of Grantaire's trembling fingers, dropping heavily onto the plush carpet. He let out a shaky breath, unable to look at Jehan or Eponine.  
"That bastard," muttered Eponine scooting closer to her cousin and friend and looking like she was going to break the champagne bottle she was still holding. She sounded shocked but was managing to keep it together. Of course, she knew that her parents would be on their estate in Montercal and still alive and well. Not that she cared that much about her parents. Jehan, on the other hand, had cared about his mother and father, despite their lack of closeness. And they were dead. Jehan was staring silently at a patch on the carpet, barely breathing.

"Shit," swore Eponine, her voice shaking and sounding tearful, "Shit." Grantaire wanted to snap at her but his voice wouldn't work. Jehan let out a broken half-sob and Eponine wrapped her arms around him, spilling a bit of the expensive champagne on the carpet. Grantaire watched as the drop spread, listening to Jehan's shaky sobs and Eponine's murmured words of comfort. It occurred to him that he should be crying as well but there were no tears. He couldn't feel the need to cry, just numbness.

To be honest, he couldn't feel anything at all.

 

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

The three of them sat silently on the leather sofas in front of the plasma television. The hotel’s luxuries didn't matter to them anymore as they stared blankly at the only obscure American news station that was showing the whole Lithiconian press conference. No one in America cared about how a tiny European country was falling apart. Grantaire's life had ripped apart but the big news channels couldn't give the incident more than three minutes. Grantaire knew he should feel angry about that but he couldn’t.

The scene on the television shook slightly and there was the flash of several camera bulbs before it focused on a long table in the Grand Entrance Hall of the Palace of Carroa, where five official looking people sat solemnly. Of course, Grantaire recognised every single one. They had all been constants in his life since he was a child.

On the far right of the table sat Javert, the Captain of the Royal Guard, in his official Palace uniform. Next to him was the ancient and stern General Gillenormand of the army. He had never been cruel to Grantaire, Jehan or Eponine but they all hated his strict, condescending manner and there had been many, many rumours about his treatment of the female palace staff. Grantaire could vaguely remember Gillenormand’s grandson who had lived with him but the boy suddenly left. Eponine had been close to him but Grantaire couldn't remember his face, let alone his name.

Next to the General sat the Commissioner of Lithicona's Police Force, Chief Inspector Fauchelevant. He was also old but much kinder than Gillenormand; a lot like Monsieur Mabuef, head of the Foreign Office. He spent a lot of his time travelling but had always been kind to Grantaire when he met him, often asking the young Prince about his favourite books. Mabuef worked closely with President Lemarque, a beautiful but stern-looking woman sat on the far left. Grantaire knew that she had often argued with his father, as she wanted to make Lithicona a constitutional monarchy which the King had vehemently opposed. She had worked her hardest to effectively bring about change within the constraints set by Grantaire's father and had always looked too busy to talk to an irresponsible teenager.

An irresponsible teenager who was in charge of the whole country now.

Grantaire's blood ran cold as he realised that within a few months, he would be expected to make important, life-affecting decisions. He could barely look after a plant; his cactus had nearly died of a lack of water only to be saved by the Butler. How the hell was Grantaire supposed to be in charge if a country?

Grantaire was a wild cynic, a rebel without a cause, a stroppy teenager still - not King material. Not like his brother, who even at eight had shown signs that he would be a strong leader. Another stab of pain passed through Grantaire's heart as he remembered his brother and how Rene had died far too young. It was funny how he felt more pain at remembering a death from years ago rather than his father who had died only hours ago. Maybe it was because it didn't feel real.

Grantaire became aware that Javert was speaking on the screen and focused his attention on the TV.

"Obviously, this is a terrible tragedy for Lithicona but currently our priority is for the safety of the rest of the Royal Family and the capture of these criminals. The small amount of evidence we have now indicates that Patron-Minette have an inside source into Palace affairs and a lot of power and resources at their disposal. This is why the main protection work will be done by specialised departments of the Army. General Gillenormand?"

Javert sat down; his face expressionless as Gillenormand stood up and cleared his throat. "Thank you Captain. Yes, the army will be placing direct members of the Royal Family into a witness-protection program. We hope that the distancing from the Royal Family will prevent, or at least slow down, Patron-Minette’s future actions so we have time to find them a more permanent solution. The Army will be working closely with the Police Force to investigate this terrorist group and protect anyone they might target."

Chief Inspector Fauchelevant spoke next, "Our first aim is to discover the motive of Patron-Minette as this would give us a clear picture of who they may target next. Until we have a motive, we're just grasping at straws. We have no definite idea of what their aims were. Of course, we are also desperately analysing their first message; the one claiming responsibility for the attack and threatening the crown prince,” Grantaire shivered, “in order to find any evidence. At this second we do not have any idea where the attacks are coming from but bear in mind, this is only a few hours after their first known attack and the probability is that Patron-Minette will release a more detailed statement soon which will give the police more to analyse."

He sat down and President Lemarque stood, shuffling her papers importantly. "Despite the fact that my government and Royal Family have clashed in the past, I can promise that everyone that Parliament is 100% behind them during this tragic hour," she announced. The crowd hummed in approval. Grantaire didn't really like her, after hearing his father complain about her for hours, but he did have to admit she knew how to make a speech.  
"Until the situation is safe, Parliament will be temporarily in charge of most Lithiconian political matters. Though it will not be focused on the terrorism issue, we pledge whatever support necessary to the search of Patron-Minette. As a government group our priority is to the safety of the People, even the Royal Family, and Patron-Minette is threatening our people and is therefore our enemy as well. We will do whatever is in our power to find them and bring them to justice. Thank you."

She sat down and Javert nodded. "Thank you, President Lemarque. Are there any questions?" he asked the crowd of reporters in front of him. Several hands shot up and there was a babble of voices. "One at a time!" Javert roared and the noise died down.

A female reporter stepped forward first, notebook in hand and asked, "Do you think Patron-Minette will be targeting civilians at all? Are the people of Lithicona also in danger?"  
"We have no reason to believe that Patron-Minette will be targeting civilians next but it is a possibility we are not ignoring, especially as two civilians were injured in the blast which killed the King and are currently in hospital. The Army is supplying guards to major monuments as a way to prevent this but until we know Patron-Minette's true motives there is very little we can do apart from protect who we believe to be the main targets," Javert replied and the reporter stepped back into the crowd, scribbling in her notebook

Another reporter raised his hand and asked, "What does this mean for tourism?"  
Javert gestured at Monsieur Mabuef who stood up to reply, "This undoubtedly will mean a decrease in tourism temporarily. As Captain Javert said, there is very little we can currently do until we have more of a lead. Until the terrorism threat has been eliminated tourism will not be as high as it currently is. Hopefully this will change very soon and everyone will be able to feel safe in Lithicona again."

He sat down and the reporter murmured a 'thank you' and slipped into the swarm. Another reporter stepped forward and asked the question Grantaire had been dreading.

"What about Prince Nicolas?"

It was weird to hear himself referred to using his first name. He had gone by Grantaire since he was five years old and the Prince had never really been used by anyone. Everyone called him Grantaire, even the servants and his father. Nicolas didn't feel like his name anymore.

Javert let out a long breath before answering carefully. "The Prince is understandably devastated about his father's death," he told the reporter, speaking slowly, picking his words carefully, "As we believe him to be the next target he will not appear in public until the threat is eliminated but I can confirm that he is currently safe and well."

The reporter looked unsatisfied with the answer and insistently asked, "Yes, but when will he return? Will he be King? We barely know anything about this boy - the Royal Family has been very private since the death of Prince Rene 13 years ago? All we have is rumoured scandals - what kind of man will be in charge of our country?"

Javert bristled. "This is not the event to discuss the characteristics of the Prince," he told the reporter sternly, "For now our priority is his safety - as heir to the throne he is the most obvious target. Gra- Nicolas is still young and these are issues to discuss once it is safe for him to return to a public position. That is all I will say on the matter for now."

The reporter grumbled but was quiet. Grantaire stood up suddenly. Jehan and Eponine looked worriedly at him.  
"I need to sleep - I need some time," he said in a monotone. Eponine nodded in understanding and Jehan smiled weakly at him.  
“If you need anything just say, okay?" Eponine told him, looking slightly concerned but not trying to stop him. Grantaire nodded and turned to go.

The pillow case felt cool and clean against the slightly stubbly skin of his cheeks as Grantaire lay on his bed. He had kicked his shoes off but hadn't bothered to undress or even get under the covers. He didn't have enough energy. His whole being felt drained, like he was the dead one instead of his father. He stared silently at the blank white wall on the other side of the room and wished that he could cry. He didn't.

Instead, he slipped slowly into sleep.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Grantaire awoke several hours later to the shrill ringing of his phone. He sat up startled and everything flooded back to him. He sat for a moment in shock, feeling tears pricking his eyes before he remembered that his phone had been ringing. He twisted round and spotted it sitting on the desk opposite the bed, far too far away. His legs felt like jelly and he didn’t know if they would support him. He stumbled to his feet, the soft duvet twisting around his legs and nearly tripping him up. Picking up the phone, he pressed the answer button. Putting it to his ear he answered blearily, "Hello?"

"Grantaire," said the cold tones of Javert. Grantaire sighed tiredly. He was too asleep for the self-righteous condescension he would no doubt be getting.  
"A decision has been made regarding your position," Javert told him authoritatively, ignoring Grantaire's sigh, "You, Jean Prouvaire and Eponine Thenardier will stay in New York until Patron-Minette has been caught. It is the safest solution and you will hopefully be out of their reach."  
"Hopefully?" Grantaire said doubtfully but predictably Javert ignored him and continued speaking.  
"Your contact in New York will be Sister Simplice, our representative at the UN. I have given her your number so she will undoubtedly call soon to discuss safety and your identity. No one can know who you are. Currently we have no idea how long you will be in New York but until we have more information on Patron-Minette it is too dangerous to fly you back."

"Uh yeah, okay. Are there any new developments on the whole Patron-Minette thing?" asked Grantaire, running a hand through his unruly bed hair, the dark curls flopping over his eyes. There was brief silence on the other end of the line before Javert snapped, "Not yet, but we are hoping that the terro-"  
"So basically no?" Grantaire cut him off. There was an even longer silence before Javert carefully replied, "Yes, that is correct."  
"Look, you don't have to give me the press version - just tell me the truth. I'll probably be your King in a few months anyway."  
Javert snorted, "Even once you return you cannot become King until you are twenty-one, at least. I will be regent for at least two years while you train."  
"Yeah I know but the sentiment is the same," Grantaire yawned, "Tell me the truth, uncensored and shit. The more you lie to me, the more likely I am to walk into a trap and die tragically." Grantaire's blood ran cold as he realised that what he said was actually true and not a stroppy exaggeration. His life was really in danger and by just being around his friends he was putting them in danger. He shook off the feeling, pushing it back with all the other emotions he was feeling and steadfastly ignoring it.  
"Fine," allowed Javert, "There are no new developments and there are no leads. Until there is another attack or message from Patron-Minette we have nothing. We can't hold a state funeral for your father or Jean's parents as it could be targeted and it is not safe enough for any dignitaries to attend. The King will be buried tomorrow night with only a few people present. Eponine's family will be there - seeing as her mother was your father’s half-sister - but in terms of the Royal Family that will be it. Tell her that her family is safe. I have to go now; no doubt Simplice will be in touch with you soon. She is famously honest and even though I don't agree with her politics you can trust her. Goodbye Grantaire."

The line went dead as Javert hung up and Grantaire stared at his phone in horror. He had so many questions but the official, posh prick wouldn't even give him answers. Javert seemed to have forgotten that he was speaking to the future King. Grantaire's stomach dropped as he realised that he was now undeniably the future King. He had never wanted the title in the first place, let alone this young. And now that his father was dead- no.

Grantaire shook his head and pushed the thoughts and emotions away. He swallowed hard and put the phone on the desk, glancing in the mirror above the desk. He looked shittier than usual; unshaven with dark circles under his eyes. It didn't suit him but to be honest nothing did. His nose was too had been broken too many times. Jehan had broken it the third time and both Jehan and Eponine had blacked his eyes more than once. In all fairness, he had done the same to them in all their years of martial-arts lessons.

He squinted tiredly at his reflection and wondered if he should grow his hair out now he had the freedom to - it would help hide his too-wide jaw and acne-scared skin. Eponine had once told him that he was attractive, in an unconventional, strong way, but Grantaire had laughed her off. It wasn't like anyone was going to judge him on his looks, not with a title like Prince anyway. People might now, in New York where no one knew where he was and that scared him more than he liked to admit.

As he examined his reflection the phone began to ring again. Quickly he picked it up and glanced at the screen. Unknown number. Simplice then. He answered it with a "Hello?" careful to not say his name.

"Your Majesty? This is Sister Simplice, from the UN. Captain Javert gave me your number."  
Grantaire let out a sigh of relief as he replied, "Grantaire - please. Not your majesty. Yes, he told me you would be in touch."  
"Alright, Grantaire. Um, these are matters that I think it would be better to discuss in person rather than over the phone - we could either meet in a public place or I could go to wherever you are staying. The second option would be faster but whichever you prefer, of course."  
"You can come over here. I'm staying on the top floor of the Royal Gardens Hotel, on Twenty-First Street. You can't miss it. I'm in room 54, just ring twice and I'll let you in."

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

 

The bell rung twice fifteen minutes later, as Eponine, Jehan and Grantaire perched nervously on the leather sofas. They looked uncertainly at each other, hoping someone else would answer. Eventually Jehan stood up and made his way slowly to the door. He looked through the eyehole and then slowly opened the door. There was a murmur of a voice from outside and Jehan opened the door all the way revealing a small woman in a navy suit. Her light brown hair was scraped into a bun and she was carrying a large briefcase.

She crossed the room quickly as Jehan closed and locked the door, and sat on the sofa opposite the three, frowning seriously as she placed her briefcase on the table in front of her. The three stared at her and no one said anything. Eponine played nervously with her hair. Jehan's fingers drummed against his pyjama-clad legs as Sister Simplice looked them over. Her eyes were stern and calculating but when she spoke her voice was soft and kind. Grantaire could immediately tell why Javert didn't like her.

"I am so, so sorry about your families," she told them in fluent French, her tone sincere. Jehan nodded but Grantaire stayed silent and Simplice continued talking.  
"I appreciate you are going through a lot but this doesn't change the fact you are in danger from Patron-Minette. I would offer you bodyguards as protection but I'm afraid that that would draw attention to you and in New York the press are demons with no respect for privacy or safety. They would broadcast your location within seconds, if it was a good enough story. Instead we have decided to give you a false identity- a background, an identity, some money and a flat and you can pretend to live a normal life. It was sorted out with the American Protection Services earlier this morning. I hope that's okay with you?"

The three nodded mutely and Simplice drew three folders out of the briefcase and handed one to each of them. Grantaire took his and stared down at the name stamped across it: Grant Ayre. It looked unfamiliar and he hated it. It was a lie and he didn't want to live a lie.

"You're three students from Nice, in the South of France," Simplice told them and Grantaire nodded. Nice was less than an hour’s flight from Carroa so the accents were similar and they had all been there plenty of times. Not to mention that all three of them were fluent in French, despite the national language of Lithicona being Italian. It was a believable story.

"You're taking a year off from university and have come to visit America to practise your English," Simplice explained, "We made all of you older by a couple of years so it says twenty-one on your ID. The birthdays are different as well, just in case. You're staying in a flat just down the road from one of the universities so you can blend into the crowd of young foreigners. The one we think we are getting you is quite small and not at all like the luxury you must be used to but it's comfortable - paid for by your ‘parents’ who are all successful business partners. All the details are in the folders and we tried our best to make everything as close to reality as possible so it will easier to pretend. There are also separate credit cards with enough money to survive several months; the flat expenses will be paid for elsewhere. A car will be round this afternoon to take you there so I would get prepared to leave quickly. There are emergency numbers in the folders as well but please keep calls to a minimum as we don't know who Patron-Minette could have tabs on. What you do after that is your choice, as long as you do not tell anyone your real identities."

"We aren't stupid!" Jehan blurted and Simplice have him a long level look before telling them, "The driver should be here in a few hours, once the details on the flat are finalised and he will ring three times. Do not let anyone else in - not even room service. I'd take the time to read up and memorise your backstories. It was nice to meet you all." The three sat in stunned silence as Sister Simplice closed her briefcase with a snap and left their hotel room.

"Well, that was rude," said Eponine with a sigh, picking up her folder which read 'Nina Jondrette' and opening it. Jehan and Grantaire did the same and began to read.

Grant Ayre had been born on the 15th September 1993 in Nice and lived there all his life. His father worked for the Royal Bank of France, along with Nina and Jean's father so they were all quite well off. They had gone to school together and got a flat together when they went to university. Grant was a European Language major, Jean studied Creative Writing and Nina did History, all of them with the intention of becoming teachers. Grant, Nina and Jean were all thoroughly boring people and Grantaire, Eponine and Jehan spent the next few hours embezzling their life stories with plenty of scandalous details.

Nina became a stripper in her spare time to help with the bills while Grant, or R as Grantaire quickly renamed him, frequented illegal underground fight clubs. Jean enjoyed self-medicating and was a proud member of The NHU (Nice Hippies United). All of them had serious authority complexes and constantly disappointed their parents. They had, in fact, run away to America after using their parent's credit cards to pay for Nina's abortion and to cover up R's whirlwind affair with Nice's top ballet dancer, instead of on a boring gap year. They had come to New York to fulfil their dreams of starting a multi-million dollar porn studio although the plans were still in the works.

The simple pleasure in defacing official documents distracted the three 19 year olds from the seriousness of their situation. They were brought down to earth by three shill rings of their doorbell. A huge, menacing driver waited outside.

The car that took the three them to the tiny block of flats was huge, black and very official looking. As Grantaire reclined on the upholstery seats he sarcastically commented, "Very subtle. I like it."  
"Yes sir," the driver agreed his tone flat.  
"I guess sarcasm isn't what you're paid for?" asked Grantaire, eyebrow raised.  
"No sir," replied the driver pulling up outside a large brick building. He opened the doors for them and Grantaire slid out. He didn't even bother to thank the driver as the man handed him his suitcase and backpack.

The building was your typical red-brick building, complete with tall windows and fire-stairs leading into an alley in-between it and the next building; perfect for amateur robbers to climb up. Grantaire had to admit it looked like a dump - all seven storeys.

Grantaire made his way into the building where a frowning man was standing, arms crossed and keys dangling from his fingers.  
"I don't know who you are and I've been warned not to ask questions but you seem to be important," he snapped at the three teenagers who stared at him, slightly shocked and disorientated.  
"I'm Mr Smithson, your landlord. The rules aren't complicated - keep the noise down, pay up at the end of the month and keep the place clean. I'll inspect it in a month or so to make sure it's still clean. I usually don't take uni-age kids so count yourself lucky. You're on the top floor, second one to the left. You got a balcony as well as three bedrooms and it's a good size - been furnished by the people here this morning. Keep it clean; no pets, no drugs, no too- wild parties or anything like that. Take yourself up there and just behave. The elevator is working today so you can use that."

He dumped the keys in Jehan's palm and walked out of the door quickly, leaving the three of them standing there. Grantaire sighed and wheeled his suitcase to metal door of the elevator and pressed the worn button. Jehan awkwardly walked to his side.  
"So, when he says the elevator is working today - does that mean it doesn't always work?" he asked as Eponine walked to the other side of Grantaire, pulling her simple black case behind her.  
"I assume so," she said frowning.  
"What? So we're going to have to walk up and down the stairs every day? It's like seven stories up!" Jehan exclaimed, horrified. Grantaire grimaced in agreement.  
"Just think of it as exercise. Anyway - we probably won't leave much. We're in hiding and I don't think there is much to leave for," she said coldly.  
"That's not true! We're still in New York - no matter what has happened. Everything has changed but I haven't. I still want to experience the city that never sleeps," Jehan protested as the elevator doors creaked opened ominously. Jehan and Grantaire stepped in but Eponine hung back.

"Do you think it can take me as well?" she asked cautiously, "It doesn't really sound safe." Usually Grantaire would have agreed with her but he felt too drained to care.  
"Come on, just get in," he told her and she reluctantly did. Jehan pressed the seventh floor button and winced as the elevator slowly and audibly began to creak up the floors.

They were all immensely relieved when the elevator managed to reach the top floor and the doors slid open erratically, revealing plain white walls and a stained carpet lit by a dim lamp. There were no windows in the corridor, only three flimsy-looking doors. The group slowly moved down the corridor to the second door on the left and Grantaire cautiously slid the keys in.

The flat was well-lit, a contrast to the dim corridor which someone could die in without anyone noticing. Its walls were all white and relatively clean apart from one which had been left unplastered; just red brick. The dining and living room area were combined, already furnished with a simple wooden table and chairs, a brown leather sofa and armchair, a coffee and a decent-looking TV. All things considered, it wasn't too bad. Just a bit cramped. A door lead to what looked like a kitchen and there was a corridor with a bookshelf and window at the end and four doors leading off it. It was small worlds away from what Grantaire, Eponine and Jehan were used to but at least it was clean and warm and most importantly: safe.

The three of them tugged their cases inside, staring around curiously. Jehan shrieked in delight when he saw the unstable-looking but large balcony outside the two living room windows. It was for a fire escape but Grantaire could tell from the way Jehan's eyes lit up that he would spend all his time out there, smoking and reading pretentious poetry. He felt a burst of happiness for his friend’s excitement, an unfamiliar feeling in what was a void of nothing.

"We better decide on who has which room," said Eponine, glancing into the kitchen and wrinkling her nose. Grantaire suddenly felt hopeless and lost. It was like a stone had dropped into his stomach and he felt heavier and tired. He desperately wanted to have a drink, just to feel less numb. God, maybe he could even find the energy to crack a smile if he had something to drink.

"You decide and just dump my case in whichever room you don't want. I need to go out and get drunk," he said tiredly.  
"You can't. You're only nineteen - not legal to drink here," protested Eponine but Grantaire had already pulled his folder and waved the false ID at the pair of them.  
"Actually I'm twenty-one, according to this anyway. I'll take a key so don't wait up. I'll be back late. I'll keep my phone on, don't worry. But I want to get smashed out of my fucking mind and either get in a fight or get laid. Don't try to stop me," he sneered over his shoulder as he walked out of the flat minutes after stepping in there.

The door slammed shut behind him and, sure enough, two hours later he ended up in a fight.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Grantaire was drunk and the guy had been pissing him off; loud, rude and pushy. So he had thrown a punch. Then the guy’s friends had joined him, dragging Grantaire out into an alley at the back of the seedy looking bar. Grantaire had held his own against them for a while, thanks to thirteen years of martial arts training, but the guys had all been bigger and there were five of them after all. Also they were more sober.

He had managed to take one down, knocking him out and kicking the limp unconscious body away but the others had got angrier because of this and started to use the bottles of beer they held as weapons instead of just their fists. One had already smashed, cutting Grantaire's upper arm as he fought in a t-shirt and tight jeans.

They had begun to overpower him, getting more blows in as Grantaire tired when the other two men had appeared, yelling. One was a huge, hulking and muscly figure while the other was smaller but still bigger than Grantaire. They had thrown themselves into the fight, punching the other men and shielding Grantaire with their bodies. Their precise punches and occasional kick showed proper training and they were sober. Eventually the other men realised they odds weren’t great so they grabbed their unconscious friend and began running. That was when the other two men turned to him, grins spreading across their faces.

"Hey, I'm Feuilly and this is Bahorel," greeted the smaller, ginger man. He spoke English with a slight accent. German, maybe? Grantaire couldn't tell when he was this drunk.  
"R," Grantaire told them, brushing his hair away from his eyes as it occurred to him how ridiculous the whole situation was. The three of them were in some tiny, dark back alley which smelt like pee, having just won a bar brawl.

Feuilly's eyes widened as he spotted the gash on Grantaire's arm. "You're hurt!" he exclaimed, "Fuck, Bahorel - get the car. We can take you to ER and get it stitched up-"  
Grantaire cut him off with a wave of his hand.  
"I'm fine. It looks worse than it is." He only slurred his words slightly which was impressive after as many shots as he'd had.  
Bahorel frowned, "Are you sure? I mean, if you don't want to go to the hospital we have a couple of friends who are med students. We can call Joly and get him to have a look at it?"  
Grantaire hesitated, thinking about it but shook his head again. "No thanks. It's not bad or anything. I'll just get one of my friends to bandage it later." Bahorel and Feuilly looked unsure so he quickly asked, "So, where did you learn to fight like that?"  
Bahorel's face lit up. "There's a gym a couple of streets from here that does kick-boxing and judo and I've been going since I was a kid. I volunteer there now, with this fucker." He threw his arm around his friend who smiled fondly at him. Grantaire realised that the pair might be more than just friends but Feuilly interrupted his thoughts.

"I grew up in an orphanage and a guy used to come and teach us twice a week. What about you? How long have you been doing it?"  
"I've had lessons since I was about five. In France - that's where I'm from," Grantaire explained, practicing his false back-story. Feuilly nodded.  
"I'm from Europe as well - Poland. Have you been in New York long?"  
"No, I arrived yesterday with some friends. Actually, I should get back to them – they are probably worried about me."  
"We'll get you a cab," insisted Bahorel. Grantaire began to protest but Bahorel cut him off insistently.  
"You're drunk as hell and you're bleeding. Also you won't know your way around the city if you're new here so just let us help, okay?" He looked relatively threatening so Grantaire agreed.

As Grantaire climbed into the cab and gave the taxi driver his address he nodded his goodbyes to Feuilly and Bahorel; grateful but his mind was foggy. He just assumed he would never see the pair again. So Grantaire forgot about the two fighters.

 

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

When Grantaire let himself into the flat at about midnight all the lights were out and Grantaire really did try to be as quiet as possible although he was reeling slightly. As he made his way down the corridor, trying not to crash into anything Jehan's quiet voice came from the open window at the other end of the living room.  
"Your room is the last door on left," Jehan told him and Grantaire jumped and swore, stubbing his toe in the darkness. He carefully limped over to the window and saw Jehan, slumped on the fire escape, a lit cigarette dangling between his fingers and a notebook covered in his scrawl open on his lap. A pen was tucked behind his ear and there were ink stains on his fingers.

"Jehan, holy shit. You scared the crap out of me," muttered R, slumping down beside his friend. The other boy gave a weak laugh and the pair sat in silence for a while before Jehan blurted out, "I was thinking of growing my hair out. Like really long. I've always wanted to but I've never had a chance before - what do you think?"  
Grantaire nodded and hummed in half-agreement. He was too drunk to really think about it but Jehan kept talking, nervously.

"I've never really wanted to write poetry before, you know? But I was sitting out here and flicking through some Sylvia Plath and I just felt like I had to say something. I had to say my own thing. So I grabbed my notebook and I wrote it all down. Fuck, Gran- I mean, R. I've never felt so good about something in my life. It's like this huge weight has been taken away from me and obviously I'm sad about Mum and Dad but I don't feel like breaking down whenever I think about them which is good."  
"Can you read it to me?" asked R, trying not to feel jealous.  
"Um yeah, okay. One second," said Jehan as he pulled out his phone to light the page of his notebook which was covered in his messy scrawl, things crossed out and small doodles everywhere.

"Scream," read Jehan.  
"I feel it building inside me.  
An unrelenting pressure.

Like a wave, just about to break,  
An animal, fighting to escape.

Growing, building, increasing.  
And me, knowing there's no chance of releasing.

Until I scream.

And I scream: cursing the air,  
Cursing the sky, the sea and I don't care.

My shout can wake a thousand dead gods.

But I can't scream and I can't shout.  
I have to pretend - won't let it all out.

'Be strong' they tell me and I try  
When really all I want to do is cry.

But it's all still there.  
Bubbling up, forcing its way out.  
Building up,  
Up, up, up.

Until finally I explode  
In a single, wild scream.”

 

 

"Maybe you need to," suggested R. Jehan looked up at him, startled, like he had forgotten his friend was there, a question in his eyes.  
"Maybe you need to scream," explained R.  
"What? Instead of writing poetry?" asked Jehan, hurt.

R shook his head as he clambered to his feet, as elegantly as a very drunk man could.  
"No, no. Keep writing but later. Now just scream," he told Jehan, pulling the smaller boy up to the railing, the cut in his arm stinging slightly, "Come on."  
"This is a terrible idea," Jehan pointed out doubtfully and R nodded enthusiastically.  
"Yep. It is. But I am drunk and you are emotionally vulnerable," said R, managing to not fuck the phrase 'emotionally vulnerable' up too much, "and it's a good way to relax. Look!"

He leant out and let screamed into the cold New York air. It turned into a whoop half-way through and Jehan joined in, their screams intermingling, half-crying, half-laughing.

The living room light was suddenly switched on behind them and they spun round to see Eponine standing there in her dressing gown, frowning blearily at the.  
"I thought someone was dying. What the hell?" she began to say but Grantaire grinned at her drunkenly.  
"’Ponine! Nina! Whatever your name is! Come scream with us!"  
"It's therapeutic," Jehan told her seriously before turning back to the street and shrieking loudly.  
Eponine gave a tired, doubtful laugh but swung her legs out of the window anyway, joining Jehan and R on the corrugated metal balcony.  
"What are you doing?" she asked them, still confused.  
"Just screaming. You need to sometimes. We were inspired by Jehan's poem," said Grantaire before shouting into the sky.  
Eponine laughed and tilted her head back, letting out a quiet shriek.  
"Louder," R told her, laughing, "as loud as you can."

And Eponine did. All three of them stood on the rickety-looking balcony with their heads thrown back, shrieking at the black sky. There were no stars here, Grantaire noticed as he screamed, all of them were blotted out by light from the earth. He didn't notice he was crying until he saw the tears rolling down Jehan's face. Whether it was for his father or for the stars, he couldn't tell.

Eventually a window slammed angrily open and a voice shouted out, "Shut up or I'm calling the Police!"  
The three collapsed laughing and clambered back through the window, giggling when Eponine got her dressing gown caught. R stumbled through, drunkenly tripping up on the carpet and landing on the floor.

They all laughed and R felt a strange de-ja-vu as he remembered laughing the night before. It seemed like years ago but it had barely been a day before.

He reached up to brush his hair out of his face angrily, tears coating his cheeks. As he lowered his arm, Eponine grabbed his wrist and swore.  
"Holy shit! Did you get stabbed? What the hell? Why didn't you say?" she yelled, gaping at the gash in his upper arm. Jehan was staring in horror as well.  
"Oh - a guy hit me with a bottle. It's not that bad, don't worry," said Grantaire trying to pull his arm away but Eponine's grip was vice-like.

"We need to go to the hospital or something - I mean it looks really bad. We don't even have a first-aid kit or anything. God, we don't even have towels to clean it up," she said, her voice rising to a panic.  
"And even if we did have a first-aid kit we can't use it," pointed out Jehan, "I couldn't even make the bed earlier. But you should definitely go to the hospital now."  
"It's really late and it's fine. It doesn't hurt or anything," protested Grantaire but his friends shook their heads.  
"We're jet-lagged and there's nothing we need to do tomorrow," said Eponine firmly, pulling him to his feet, "Your arm needs immediate medical attention. Come on; Jehan call a cab or something."  
Jehan nodded and followed them out of the apartment, locking the door to their home behind them while dialling the number for a cab. Grantaire was dragged into the lift rolling his eyes dramatically and moaning about how they were fussing over nothing.

As the lift slowly creaked down the seven floors he felt a strange feeling come over him.  
"Isn't it weird?" he asked.  
"What?" replied Jehan.  
"That we can just leave in the middle of the night without any planning. That no one’s watching us or keeping an eye on us. That we can be spontaneous?"  
"I guess that's what freedom is like," commented Jehan as the lift doors slid open.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————  
Two days later they weren't revelling in freedom so much.

"Where the hell do you buy decent cutlery sets?" hissed Eponine, her arms already full of extra bed sheets. Jehan was holding an electric heater while R balanced a set of ceramic plates on top of a wash basket.

The three of them were all irritable, cold and tired. They had returned to their apartment from the hospital and realised that furniture had been supplied but they would have to buy everything else. Not only that, the apartment had only one radiator in the living room so the rest of the flat was constantly freezing and they hadn't had a proper meal in three days since none of them knew how to cook properly. So it had been decided that they had to go on a group shopping trip to get everything needed. It wasn't as easy as it seemed.

They had managed to get a microwave and coffee machine delivered to their flat but the fact remained that none of them knew a thing about what a home needed and how it should be kept clean. R, Nina and Jehan were slowly realising how sheltered and hopeless at surviving without maids and chefs and butlers they were.

It didn't help that Jehan felt the urge to handle any trinket that caught his fancy or that R was constantly migrating towards the art shops of the mall. The mall didn't help either with its twisting corridors and unclear shops. Their tensions were pulled tight as guitar strings as Grantaire snapped back, "I don't know, do I? Where did we get these plates, maybe they'll have some there?"

A shop assistant passing by, carrying a large box of bed sheets stopped by them and told them in a bored voice, "Cutlery can be found in aisle 12 - it's just round the corner." As the man lowered the box R gasped in recognition. The freckled ginger man stared at him in confusion for several seconds before realisation dawned on his face.

"Hey!" he greeted him, his tone much more enthusiastic, "You're that guy from the pub - the drunk one who got into a fight with like ten guys and still managed to floor them? R, right?"  
"Uh, yeah - though it wasn't that dramatic," Grantaire said, struggling to remember the guy’s name as Eponine turned her gaze of fury on him.  
"Feuilly," the guy reminded him, grinning and hoisting the box up easily. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, displaying a multitude of tattoos running up and down his arms. His smile was friendly as he nodded at Jehan and Eponine even though her gaze was ice-cold.

"He did what?" she asked, her accent more pronounced than usual in her anger.  
"Uh- yeah. There was a fight, at a bar. He was managing pretty well," said Feuilly, realising what exactly he had put R into and shooting him an apologetic look.  
Eponine slowly turned to Grantaire and let out an angry stream of French.  
"For fucks sake R! Ten guys? I thought one, maybe! But ten? Were trying not to bring attention to ourselves, remember you dimwit? It's a wonder that you weren't more hurt! You idiot - what would happen if you got put in hospital? We'd be on the news and suddenly everyone knows where we are!" she yelled, the words pouring out of her. Grantaire winced, still recovering from a hangover from the night before. He had gone out drinking again, despite the protests of Eponine and Jehan.

"So, is your arm alright now?" asked Feuilly quickly, trying to stop Eponine's tirade but she turned her wrath to him suddenly.  
"You knew about his arm? Why didn't you get him to hospital? We had to drag him tree later that night and he needed three stitches!" she scolded Feuilly who looked slightly terrified by the petite French girl with dark hair and a temper redder than his hair.  
"Leave him be Nina," said R tiredly, "I convinced him that I'd be fine."  
Eponine aimed a slap at his head which R dodged. Jehan looked slightly desperate and Feuilly was still looking terrified.

"So, cutlery?" Jehan asked quickly, grabbing Eponine's wrist as she raised her hand again. Feuilly nodded desperately and put the box down.  
"I'll show you guys," he offered, hurrying down the aisle, followed by Jehan who was muttering an embarrassed apology to him. Eponine and Grantaire stalked angrily after the pair.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Somehow, almost an hour later, Jehan, Eponine and Grantaire ended up following Feuilly into the Cafe ABC.

Feuilly was extremely good at his job and pretty much the greatest person in the universe, the three had unanimously decided. He had managed to not only find them cutlery but everything else on the very long list and organised it to be sent to their flat later that day, chatting the whole time. Feuilly wasn't a full-time college student but most of his friends were and he worked five jobs as well as night classes. He also spoke pretty good French and it was good to hear the familiar language. R, Nina and Jehan all took the opportunity to practice telling their 'life-story'.

When Jehan had gratefully thanked him and told him (in not so many words) that Feuilly was basically the nicest person ever he had just laughed and told them they hadn't met his friends yet. Then he had proceeded to invite them to lunch with him and his friends as soon as his shift finished. The three had been prepared to lounge around, waiting for Feuilly for the about half an hour before he lead them out of the shopping mall and along the street to a corner where a small cafe sat, the smell of coffee and baking wafting out of the open door onto the street.

"The Café Musain?" Grantaire read the slightly peeling sign aloud. The front window was covered in colourful signs and post-it notes proclaiming 'World’s Best Coffee', 'Free Wi-Fi', 'Books; so many books' and 'Poetry Nights - Friday at seven' as well as the times the cafe was open and a display of the menu. A chalk board sat by the old wooden door offered 'coffee, cake and social justice every Thursday evening' in large pastel letters, decorated with daisies around the edge. Grantaire raised an eyebrow at the messy but cheerful shop front. Feuilly grinned and shrugged at his reaction.  
"It's owned by my friend Musichetta," he explained, "She's the best cook to have ever existed and also one of the smartest people I know. The Musain is basically my favourite place and the coffee is actually the best in the world. No exaggeration."

He led the three inside and as R's eyes adjusted to the relative darkness he noticed the rows upon rows of bookshelves lining the walls, living up to the promises on the signs in the window. They were stocked with a huge range of materials; he spotted a massive collection of National Geographic magazines sitting beside several battered copies of Harry Potter.

Several tables and an array of comfortable-looking chairs were scattered around the shop, brightly coloured squares of light falling across them due to the midday sun shining through the window signs. It was comforting and bright, with an old fashioned air to it. The menu behind the counter was all written up on chalk-boards in the same pastel colours as outside. It was mainly empty apart from the women behind the counter who smiled happily at Feuilly as he entered. "You're here, finally!" she said, scolding him jokingly before she spotted R, Nina and Jehan lurking behind him, "And you brought people!"  
She had caramel skin and dark wavy hair kept off her face by a plaited leather band. A long, orange skirt swirled around her legs as she swept towards the group, her smile wide and happy. Her eyes were brown but warm and comforting and, much to Grantaire's shock she embraced him like they were old friends.

"Hey! Don't scare them away," joked Feuilly and Musichetta stood back, grinning sheepishly.  
"Sorry, I can get a bit over-friendly sometimes," she apologised but R just waved her apology away.  
"'Chetta's decided that she was actually born in the sixties and should be a hippie" explained Feuilly.  
"Born for sixties atheistic. The sixties kind of sucked in terms of human rights and technology," she corrected, gently hitting his arm and rolling her eyes fondly.  
The three nodded awkwardly, not knowing how to reply to the strange pair.

Luckily another pair hurried through the door, holding hands and chatting. They approached Feuilly and Musichetta, too engrossed in their conversation to notice the newcomers. One was tall with brown, curly hair and an infectious smile. He seemed to be wearing a brightly coloured bow tie; despite the fact his outfit was otherwise casual, including extremely skinny jeans and bright orange Chuck Taylors. The other man's outfit was much more subdued, in a blue plaid shirt and thin glasses balanced precariously on his nose.

"Courf! He's going to go ahead with the plan no matter what we do," the second man said in an exasperated tone, "We might as well go along and try to make sure he doesn't end up killing himself!"  
The crazier looking man sighed. "Whatever we do, it's going to end badly. We should try and stop the idiot before he can get that far. He'll listen to us; we're his best friends - Hey Feuilly, hey 'Chetta."  
"This is R, Nina and Jehan," said Musichetta quickly cutting in, "They're from France. This is Combeferre and Courfeyrac."

The pair finally noticed the three newcomers and smiled welcomingly at them.  
"Hey!" greeted Courfeyrac enthusiastically, "Welcome to the City That Never Sleeps!"  
"Did they kidnap you?" asked Combeferre, only half-joking, "They've done that before and if they have, I'm so sorry - please don't press charges against us."  
"That was one time," gasped Musichetta, looking hurt and Combeferre raised an eyebrow.  
"Bahorel. Joly. Marius," he stated, and Musichetta made a face.  
"Fine. But they all stayed. Only one person ran away. And Marius, I guess. But he came back. It was only because Enjolras scared them away, anyway."

"I did not," said the newest person to enter the café. As Grantaire looked up he felt himself stop breathing. I could not be fair for someone to be that gorgeous. Simply not fair. The man had long blonde hair, pulled back in a loose ponytail and a proud well defined face. He reminded Grantaire of the classic figure of Apollo in Renaissance paintings. Maybe that was part of the reason Grantaire found the man so attractive; he loved classic art and he loved Greek mythology. Enjolras was the living embodiment of both; more regal than Grantaire had ever looked, in his tight-fitting, vivid red coat and skinny black jeans. The guy was literally a fucking Greek God/male model, R decided, come from the pages of Olympian Vogue.

"Anyway," the man continued, swinging his satchel onto one of the more rickety-looking chairs (Grantaire should have found that as attractive as he did), "They were Republican. I don't know why you brought them along anyway."  
"Because, Enjolras darling, they were lovely. Not everything is about political affiliation," Musichetta said, rolling her eyes as Enjolras snorted doubtfully, "Anyway - it might do you a bit of good to hear someone else's side. Marius was also right-wing as well, remember?"  
"Marius knew about as much about politics as a wet sock would," replied Enjolras, "He went on about Napoleon and military issues. And he wasn't rude about it - unlike the other one."  
"People aren't being rude when they disagree with you," said Combeferre quickly.  
"But he was rude about it! I tried explaining about Marxism and Socialism but he kept calling us Communists!”  
"And you called him a Fascist and told him to get out!"  
"He was against a national health service!"  
"Guys - shut up!" interrupted Feuilly, shooting Grantaire, Jehan and Eponine an apologetic look, "Enjolras, meet Nina, Jehan and R. They're from France. Guys this is Enjolras." Enjolras nodded a greeting absent-mindedly, searching around in his bag.

"Enjolras is the fearless leader of - our activist group," Courfeyrac told them confidentially.  
"I am not the leader, Courf! Les Amis de l'ABC are a non-profit, equal standing organisation," stated Enjolras. Grantaire snorted appreciatively at the pun and Enjolras turned his cold gaze to him. "Is something funny?"  
"Um, yes?" said Grantaire, "It's a pun?"  
"What's a pun?"  
"The name - Les Amis de l'ABC. It's a pun."  
A look of understanding dawned on Jehan's face and he laughed, "Oh- of course! ABC, abaissés." Everyone stared at him, apart from Feuilly who was studying the floor carefully.  
"Abaissés means 'abased' or 'lowly' in French," explained Grantaire, "You're an activist group who are basically calling yourself 'The Friends of the Lowly'. It's good."

A look of terrible realisation dawned on Enjolras' face and he turned to Feuilly.  
"A pun? You named our group after a pun!" he said, his voice shocked. Feuilly shrugged, biting his lip to stop himself laughing.  
"It was too good to resist," he admitted, not quite looking at Enjolras' horrified expression.  
“You said the French was because of the connotations of revolution! I trusted you!" accused Enjolras sounding betrayed.  
"Exactly. You have to admit - it's good though."  
"We have official stationary which has a pun on it!"  
"I knew we shouldn't have gotten official stationary," muttered Courfeyrac but Combeferre elbowed him to stay silent.  
"Holy shit - this is golden," whispered Eponine to Grantaire. He followed Combeferre's example.  
"Why didn't Marius tell me? He's a native French speaker!"  
"Either Marius assumed you knew or he didn't figure it out. I doubt Marius recognise a joke if it bit him in the ass," replied Feuilly shrugging.

"Okay - I resent that," said a voice from the door. A curvy blonde girl wearing amazing leather boots had just entered, pulling a tie-dye scarf off.  
"Is that Marius?" asked Jehan. The girl laughed.  
"Nah. I'm Cosette. Marius is my boyfriend. He has a very- uh- refined sense of humour. Anyway, who are you?"  
"This is R, Nina and Jehan," introduced Musichetta. Enjolras was still looking like everything he knew was crashing down around him but Musichetta was staring in envy at Cosette's scarf, "Where the hell did you get that scarf? It's amazing! I need one!"

Cosette laughed, "I knew you'd like it, it was from-"  
"No," said a tall, dark skinned man who had just walked in. He was wearing a blue beanie and holding hands with a shorter man who was bundled up in far too many woollen clothes for the mildly cold weather. "No more tie-dye."  
Musichetta pouted, "But honey-"  
"No. You have 27 tie-dye t-shirts, 3 dresses and 1 pair of jeans. We have a tie-dye duvet set and five tie-dye cushion covers. Oh- and all the dishcloths. I can't deal with anymore," he insisted.  
Musichetta huffed, "Bossuet, I love you but you're sleeping on the sofa tonight."  
"No he's not," said the other man who was going through the long, complicated process of extracting himself from his many wool garments, "He's right. No more tie-dye."  
"Fine! You can sleep on the sofa tonight as well, Joly! I'll get the bed all to myself."  
"Or we could kick you out onto the sofa and we get the bed?" suggested Bossuet, slipping an arm round her waist with a flirty grin. She rolled her eyes and kissed his cheek. Grantaire, Eponine and Jehan all stared, slightly confused until Cosette leant over and explained, "Joly, Musichetta and Bossuet have a poly-amorous relationship. They're all dating each other. It's sickening."

Feuilly snorted, "Says Little Miss Disney Princess! They might be sickening but you and Marius are positively gooey! Your eyes practically turn to hearts every time you see him and he sends you flowers every Tuesday!"  
"So? It's sweet!"  
"You live together! Yet he still orders you flowers for the weekly anniversary of your meeting! And kisses you every single time you say goodbye. Not to mention the way you got together; pining after each other every day in the park until one day you dropped your handkerchief and he picked it up then searched New York until he found you to give it back. You are literally the poster children for a perfect, movie relationship. Humans of New York said so!"  
"Oh yeah, Mr ‘my partner and I defy every stereotype as we go out and start bar fights and act tough but we actually teach little kids martial arts and have movie nights where we watch soppy cartoons and cry!’"  
"Hey!"  
"Don't worry about them - they're always like this," said Combeferre to Grantaire, Jehan and Eponine. Musichetta, Joly and Bossuet had somehow intertwined as Feuilly and Cosette argued, leaving the three newcomers standing awkwardly alone, half-scared and half-amused.  
"If you want to escape, this is probably your chance," suggested Courfeyrac, his voice a whisper. It wasn't quiet enough though as Feuilly and Cosette turned their gazes on him, still hand-in-hand with Combeferre.  
"Like you two can talk! You were childhood sweethearts!" pointed out Cosette, glancing pointedly at their still-clasped hands. Jehan laughed at the absurdity of the argument.  
"Living your lives of domestic bliss. God, you've already got Enjolras to be your child," commented Feuilly.  
"I am not their child!" protested Enjolras, still looking grumpy.  
"Yes you are," said Cosette, Feuilly and Courfeyrac in unison. Enjolras opened his mouth to argue but Combeferre laid a hand on his arm.  
"Just ignore them," he said soothingly.  
"Exactly," muttered Feuilly and Cosette giggled. Enjolras scowled but didn't protest.  
"Is Bahorel coming tonight?" he asked instead.  
"As far as I know," said Feuilly with a shrug, "He might be late though so you can start the meeting. He won't mind."  
"If you're sure?"  
"I'm sure. Anyway, I'm in a hurry - I've got a shift at eight so hurry up."

Joly and Bossuet approached R, Jehan and Nina as the others bustled around them.  
"Just take a seat," Joly told them with a grin, "I assume you know what you're in for?"  
"Yeah - not really," admitted R sheepishly.  
"Feuilly brought us a long but didn't tell us there was a meeting," added Jehan, "We can leave if we're interrupting anything."  
"No - no! It's great to have new people here," Bossuet reassured them, “We’re organising a visit to New York Soup Kitchen next week. You should come along!"

Eponine and Jehan both looked interested but Grantaire made a doubtful sound, partially wondering if it was sensible to get too involved in such a tight-knit group whilst they were hiding from terrorists and partially judging the choice of action, catching the attention of Enjolras.  
"Is there anything funny?" he asked, his voice curious but laced with ice. Being the person to point out the pun had not been a great way to start off.  
"No," R exclaimed, unable to keep the doubt creeping into his voice. Enjolras raised an annoyingly perfect eyebrow. Grantaire absent-mindedly wondered if he plucked them. The mental image of Apollo furiously staring into a mirror with a pair of tweezers made him snigger. This seemed to make Enjolras angry.  
"Please tell?" he asked coldly.  
"No - I wasn't laughing at that, oh whatever," Grantaire said with a sigh, "I think that volunteering at a soup kitchen is pointless. It doesn't help in the long term to solve the problem of homelessness."

Enjolras raised his chin defiantly, his eyes angry. "Of course it helps. People who need warm, nutritious food can get it. It might not solve homelessness but it helps people while they are homeless."  
"Not if you only do it once," argued Grantaire, "You need to have people doing it every day if you want to make a difference!"  
"Soup kitchens always need more volunteers. It shows our support for the community!"  
"So you're doing it to advertise your social justice group?" asked Grantaire cynically, giving a slight smile. He could feel everyone in the room staring at the pair. Jehan and Eponine rolled their eyes and sighed but Enjolras' temper flared.  
"Of course not! Don't be so stupid! We want to help people - not to inflate our egos. Unlike you - we aren't selfish like you!"  
"Enjolras," muttered Courfeyrac, his tone shocked and scolding but Enjolras ignored him and continued furiously, stepping closer.  
"If you think that the purpose of Les Amis de l'ABC is to make us look like good people then you don't belong here. You obviously aren't interested in helping others and we don't need pessimists bring down what we have achieved. You're just wasting your and our time by being here."

Grantaire stared silently at Enjolras for several moments, shocked and hurt before he shrugged and turned away to hide the surprise on his face. No one apart from his father and Javert had dared to talk to him like that. And his brother, of course, but that had been years ago. Even when Eponine or Jehan had scolded him or his drinking they had never been that harsh and he had known it had been to help him. To have anyone, especially Apollo, to say harsh but true things in such a cold way was hurtful but Grantaire refused to let it show.

"Fine. I'll go," Grantaire said quietly, "I'll go. Sorry for wasting everyone's time." He began to make his way to the door, weaving through the chairs and table of the Cafe Musain in the awkward, shameful silence but he saw Eponine and Jehan move to follow.  
"You don't have to come as well - I can get back to the flat alone," he told them.  
Eponine gave Enjolras a nasty look and told him, "Yeah right; we're coming home with you. It was nice meeting everyone."  
"Bye," Jehan gave everyone a small wave which a few cautiously returned. Enjolras was silently watching the exchange, his face emotionless.

The bell on the door rang too loudly as the three left the Cafe. Just before the door slammed shut they heard Feuilly's voice saying, "Bloody hell Enjolras!"  
Grantaire glanced at Jehan and Eponine who looked disappointed to be walking away from the Cafe Musain.  
"You guys didn't have to come - they're nice people. Stay with them," he told them sadly. Eponine shook her head fiercely.  
"Not a chance. I don't hang around with people who talk to my friends like that."  
"Yeah but you liked them. They could be your friends?"  
"They obviously aren't worth hanging it with if they're okay with that Enjolras talking to people like that. It was embarrassing for you and him. They can't be great friends if they let that happen to people," replied Jehan curtly. Eponine nodded and linked arms with R.  
"You're ten times better than any of them. At least you don't treat people like shit when you don't agree with them."  
"Thanks," said R, smiling weakly as Jehan took his other arm.

The group walked in silence for a while, arms linked but it was broken by the shouts of their names. They stopped by a bench and a beech tree and glanced back to see Joly and Bossuet running towards them, dodging other pedestrians or more often not-dodging them in the case of Bossuet.

"Hey," panted Joly, coming to a halt beside them. His boyfriend soon stopped beside them and Joly took this as his cue to start speaking, ignoring the cold glare of Eponine and the sullen silence of Jehan.

"We've been sent by the group to extend our deepest apologies for Enjolras' behaviour. It was out of order."  
"Don't worry - Courf and ‘Ferre are laying into him now, Feuilly and Cosette aren't talking to him and Chetta isn't making him coffee until he sees why he's a dick," Bossuet said conspiratorially. Jehan gave a snort of laughter which brought a relieved smile to Joly and Bossuet's hopeful, yet anxious, faces.  
"Also, you all should come to the soup kitchen," Joly told R. He gave a bitter laugh and shook his head.  
"I doubt Enjolras would be happy to see me there," he replied.  
"You should come anyway. Forget Enjolras. Don't listen to Enjolras - he doesn't know when to shut his mouth," said Bossuet gently.  
"He shouldn't have said that stuff, it was cruel. We should have stopped him because he never knows when he takes something too far," added Joly, squeezing Bossuet's hand.  
"Everything he said was true, though," pointed out R but the couple shook their head vehemently, cutting him off.  
"No it isn't - you seem really nice and you had a point that you had a right to express. Just cause he didn't agree doesn't mean he should have reacted like that. The Soup Kitchen thing is partially a marketing venture cause Les Amis haven't had much publicity since out last protest and we needed to do something rather than just listen to Enjolras rage about injustice. We'd like more people to come along - it's what we were trying to do anyway."  
"I'd be rubbish at it; I wouldn't help at all," protested Grantaire but he knew his arguments were weak.  
"Doesn't matter. We're meeting here at 8 o'clock on Friday and getting the subway there together," Bossuet said.  
"See you there," said Joly, leaving no room for argument as he as he smiled at the three strangers like they were his closest friends before turning to return to the café.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Grantaire resolved not to go anywhere near the soup kitchen, or Enjolras, preferably ever again.

Which was why at 8 o'clock on Friday he was standing, slightly hung-over outside the Musain with a far too enthusiastic Jehan and Eponine.

As Combeferre and Courfeyrac approached with Enjolras they gave him an apologetic smile but didn't say anything. Enjolras simply nodded curtly at the three, his red t-shirt clinging to his skin and golden hair ruffled. A scowl seemed to have permanently taken up residence on his face and Courfeyrac leant over and whispered loudly to Jehan, Eponine and Grantaire, "He's not a morning person."  
Enjolras' scowl deepened.

Grantaire couldn't even be bothered to make a sarcastic comment. He'd recently realised that he wasn't a morning person either; something he'd never had reason to find out before he came to New York.

The rag-tag group must have stood out on the train of commuters, all laughing and joking - dressed in bright, colourful clothes. They were a stark contrast to the silent, tired commuters in subdues black and greys. The journey from the Musain to Harlem was not long but Grantaire had managed to chat to almost everyone, by the time they reached the New York Soup Kitchen.

As they bustled into the large warehouse loudly a nervous and slightly annoyed women scurried toward them.  
"Welcome to the New York Food Bank and Community Kitchens," she said coldly, "I'm afraid we don't open until 10-"

"We're Les Amis de l’ABC - we're here to volunteer," snapped Enjolras and the women's eyes widened.  
"Oh yes - of course. We were told you would be coming. I have to admit - you aren't what we were expecting...” she trailed off as the group stared expectantly at her. She swallowed and decided to move on.

"You'll be split into two groups: one for family meals and one for congregate meals," she explained. R found himself with Cosette, Bahorel, Feuilly, Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras. Eponine and Jehan gave him a sympathetic glance as he walked away from them, towards the glowering Enjolras.

R's group was led away from the others, down a long corridor towards the kitchen for Congregate Meals. The woman explained loudly that they would each be given different roles; preparing the meals, serving the people and cleaning the plates so they could be used again. Her voice echoed off the white, sterile corridors. It seemed too unfriendly, too hospital-like for a place which was supposed to serve meals to the homeless.

Cosette walked beside him, her arm bumping familiarly against his. She was about a head shorter than him, having swapped her stylish heeled boots for more practical shoes, but her high blonde ponytail and her confident stride made up for her lack of height.

"You're from Nice - in France, right?" she asked, tilting her head to look up at R. He nodded and she smiled.  
"I was born there," she told him in slightly shaky French, "but my mother moved to New York after."

"Hey- you're good!" replied Grantaire, relieved to be speaking a more familiar language, "Was it your mum who taught you how to speak French?"  
Cosette's reaction was unexpected. She looked away, biting her lip and shook her head. When she finally spoke it was in English again, "Uh- no. My mum, well, she passed away when I was five."

Grantaire flushed guiltily. "Oh, oh shit - I'm sorry," he began to apologise but Cosette cut him off.  
"It's fine - I didn't really know her that much and my adoptive father is great. But, no she didn't teach me French. That was my boyfriend, Marius. He grew up near Nice and he speaks about ten languages. Maybe you know him!"  
"Probably not. Nice is a pretty big place."  
"Oh well, you should meet him. He's about a hundred times better at French than me."

Grantaire nodded in agreement, unable to shake off Cosette's enthusiastic suggestion. Of course, he knew that it would be a bad idea, any one from Nice would probably recognise him, but Cosette's cheerfulness was difficult not to respond to.

"So Feuilly told me you’re studying European Languages?" Cosette said when Grantaire didn't offer any other topic of conversation.  
"Uh - yeah I do. Um, did. Back in Nice."  
"Awesome - do you like it? I don't think I could deal with that many languages. French is difficult enough."  
Grantaire frowned, trying to think of an answer.  
"Not really. My father wanted me to into business like him but I guess I wanted to do something art-related. Languages were a compromise,” he lied fluently.  
"Hey! Are you arty as well?" asked Cosette excitedly. Grantaire shrugged hesitantly and Cosette continued, "That's great. I'm a designer - doing fashion and textiles at college. The only other arty person in Les Amis is Feuilly. He doesn't go to college but he's amazing at woodwork and making things. If I need help for anything I go to him because he is great with his hands. What do you do?"  
"Uh- painting, I guess," said Grantaire, desperately hoping that Cosette wouldn't ask too many questions.  
He had been taught to paint and draw by his mother but had continued under the instruction of the palace artist after she had passed away. His father had always disapproved so it had become part of his way to rebel and hide from his tutors. It was private and R wasn’t prepared to talk about it with someone he had just met, no matter how sweet Cosette was. Luckily the group was approaching huge white doors and the women leading them had begun talking again.

A few minutes later Grantaire found himself led away from Cosette, handed an apron and a ladle and placed beside Enjolras beside on of the shiny counters. They were instructed to work as a pair, handing out bowls of soup and a spoon to the people queuing up. Grantaire stood there, frozen and wondering what he had gotten himself into. His nervousness must have showed in his face because Combeferre stopped by him and gave a kind smile.  
"Enjolras has done this before - you'll be fine with him," he reassured. R nodded and returned the smile even though that was hardly what he was worried about. He walked slowly towards Enjolras clutching the ladle like a weapon.

Enjolras didn't speak to him until they were at their places, poised to start pouring soup into bowls.  
"So you came?" asked Enjolras, raising a doubtful eyebrow as he looked Grantaire up and down.  
"Uh- no," replied Grantaire sarcastically. Enjolras scowled and stared desperately towards the station with Combeferre and Courfeyrac across the room. The pair lapsed into silence which continued as people began crowding into the room.

Grantaire had to admit that he was surprised by the huge range of people. He had expected just old men, stereotypical tramps, hobbling in but instead there were people of all ages and all ethnicities lining up on front of the counter. It was a shock, seeing all these types of people, all needing food. He had never realised how much poverty there was, even in a city like New York. What confused him most was how polite each person was, smiling and thanking them for their meagre meal of soul and a piece of bread. They were all much kinder to each other than many rich officials Grantaire had spent his whole life with. It occurred to Grantaire that never in his life had he missed a meal or been hungry. He didn't even know if he would recognise what being properly hungry was.

He was silent as he ladled the soup into bowl after bowl, handing each one to Enjolras who passed it onto whoever waited. In sharp contrast to Grantaire he smiled and talked to the people who seemed pleased to answer his insignificant questions about their day. Not only was Apollo gorgeous he was also charismatic. At least five people lining up greeted him by name or thanked him for something he had done before. It was obvious that Enjolras knew what he was doing and had done it many times before.

It was about ten minutes in when the wailing began. A dark-skinned woman who had just entered the cafeteria had collapsed near the entrance and was sobbing into her cracked mobile phone. Combeferre, who was nearest to her, rushed forward and knelt beside her, his expression concerned. He tried talking to her but she just shook her head, her sobs getting louder. Eventually she choked out a few unintelligible words and Combeferre frowned. A curious crowd had gathered around the scene. Enjolras was frowning and looking towards his friend, still clutching a bowl of soup.

"Does anyone speak, um, Dutch - I think?" Combeferre asked, his hand resting gently on the still-crying woman's shoulder as they crouched on the linoleum floor. A murmur ran through the room and several heads shook. Grantaire put the ladle down and made to walk towards the pair but Enjolras stopped him with a glare.  
"What are you doing?" he whispered angrily.  
"I was going over there," replied Grantaire quietly.  
"We shouldn't crowd her - Combeferre will deal with it. We should keep serving the meal; people are waiting," said Enjolras dismissively, turning away.  
"I speak Dutch," replied Grantaire shortly.  
Enjolras flushed, in an unfairly attractive way, and moved aside letting Grantaire past.  
He cautiously approached Combeferre and the woman who was still crying, rocking back and forth. Kneeling beside them, Combeferre looked at him desperately, pushing his glasses back on his nose. "Do you speak Dutch?" he asked anxiously and let out a sigh of relief when R nodded, "Thank God. Could you find out what's wrong so we can try to sort it out?"

Grantaire nodded again and turned to the woman. He spoke slowly, his Dutch shaky and unpractised. It was one of the many languages he had been expected to learn although he had never actually used it before. He was painfully aware of how formal he must sound.  
 _"Hello, my name is R,"_ he began and the woman looked up at the familiar words, relief written across her face. She began speaking and gesticulating wildly, talking far too fast for him to understand. He held a hand up and she paused.  
 _"Please can you slow down? I do not speak your language very well,"_ he asked and she nodded and began again at a slower pace.  
 _"I’m Cariña. My husband is dead, I just found out,"_ she explained, tears running down her face. Grantaire made a sympathetic noise and she continued shakily, _"He is - was the only person who speaks English in our family and the only person who could work in America. My daughter is pregnant and now we have no money as the hospital costs a lot. We have no family in America as we only moved here two years ago from Suriname. I don't know what we will do."_  
Grantaire looked up at Combeferre who was still hovering worriedly and gave him an unsure look. He couldn't imagine being in Cariña's situation, let alone see a way out of it.  
"What's wrong?" Combeferre asked and Grantaire quickly told him. Combeferre, surprisingly, looked relieved.  
"Tell her we're very sorry for her loss but we can help her with her other problems," he told Grantaire, "We know a place which offers free English lessons and Les Amis know organisations which could help with the financial problems and help her get a work visa." R nodded and translated the message to the woman who began crying again, this time with relief, and repeatedly thanking them over and over again.

She gave a more detailed account of her troubles which Grantaire translated to a Combeferre who wrote a list of useful websites, phone numbers and places to go checking with Grantaire that she could read each one. Cariña kissed both of them on the cheek and blessed them. Combeferre explained, through Grantaire, that all the services offered multiple languages and that the last number was for Les Amis de l'ABC and instructed her to call if she needed anymore help.  
"We'll have to keep you around now," joked Courfeyrac who had joined them, "You're the only person we know who speaks Dutch." Grantaire laughed but couldn’t help point out, "Jehan is fluent and Nina knows bits and pieces as well."  
"Good - we'll keep you all around then."  
"That's fine by me," admitted Grantaire, surprised and embarrassed. He had never felt like he had been useful to someone before.

He walked back to the counter where Enjolras was struggling to serve soup quickly by himself. He nodded at Grantaire awkwardly as R took the ladle back and took his place.  
"That was good. You really helped her," he told R as they once again fell into the familiar rhythm. Grantaire shrugged, surprised at the praise from Enjolras.  
"I don't think I helped much," he began but Enjolras interrupted.  
"Of course you helped! We couldn't have communicated with her if it wasn't for you," he protested but Grantaire shook his head.  
"I mean in the long term. She's in a really difficult situation," he explained. Enjolras looked affronted.  
"You gave her a way to communicate her problems. You helped to give her a support system and a way to help herself. Most importantly you gave her hope. She feels like she can do something now and you did that!"  
Grantaire gave a wry smile, "I don't put much stock in hope, Apollo."  
"You should put stock in hope! Thousands of people in this city alone live below the poverty line and the only way we can lift- wait, what did you call me?"  
"Apollo?"  
"Don't call me that," said Enjolras frowning.  
"Whatever you say, Apollo," said Grantaire with a smirk. Enjolras scowled at him and once again they fell into a sullen silence, continuing to hand out the basic meal to people who needed it.

Over two hours later the soup kitchen closed but the volunteers stayed to help clear up. Cosette approached him again, this time with Feuilly and Bahorel on either side.  
"Hey, you and Enjolras work well together," said Bahorel with a suggestive tone. Grantaire shook his head.  
"I'm not gay," he blurted out then stopped and frowned. It was never something he had ever thought about before. It wasn't something he had allowed himself to consider before.  
"Anyway, I managed to piss him off again," he said quickly, trying to cover up his silence.  
"Don't worry about it. He always seems more annoyed than he is," Feuilly explained. Bahorel nodded in agreement, "One time we thought he had a crush on Feuilly and when Feuilly tried to talk to him about it and he got very upset. Turns out he was just embarrassed because of his 'privilege' and he 'greatly admired' how Feuilly didn't have that and was still great."  
"You are privileged! Enjolras' parents are rich as hell and when I first met you were making your parents pay for law school but not actually going. You're all rich boys playing at being revolutionaries."  
Grantaire blanched, his mind descending into a guilty panic. He would definitely count as a rich boy playing at being poor. Cosette seemed to notice his sudden silence and quickly changed the subject.

"It was amazing how you talked to that woman," she said gently and Grantaire shrugged and gave a small smile, "Just trying to help. And I was only talking to her. Combeferre did all the actual helping."  
"No! We couldn't have talked to her if it wasn't for you," said Feuilly smiling. Bahorel nodded in agreement, "Yeah, I mean who speaks Dutch?"  
"The Dutch? Also maybe Marius?" suggested Feuilly, "he speaks about a million languages after all."  
"I'm ninety percent sure that Dutch is one of the few languages Marius doesn't speak," corrected Cosette, "He'll want to learn it now though - you can teach him when he gets back from Chicago, maybe?"  
"Yeah that would be good," said Grantaire, hoping desperately he would never meet Marius who would probably recognise the fact he wasn’t from Nice as soon as he heard R’s accent. Grantaire was never that lucky though.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

A few weeks later Jehan and Grantaire lounged against one another on one of the Musain's sofas. Originally their feet had been on the table but Musichetta had emerged from the kitchen, making them quickly swing their legs down. They had both learned from painful experience how ruthless Musichetta could be with a tea-towel when it came to her café. Neither of them wanted to repeat the painful experience.

Eponine was standing by the counter, chatting to Joly and Bossuet about some TV show they had convinced her to watch. Recently the three had invested in a Netflix account which, as Jehan had passionately acclaimed, was probably the best decision they had ever made. Grantaire had barely slept for a week as he marathoned Game of Thrones; making him especially grateful for the coffee discount Musichetta offered to regular customers.

Combeferre sat opposite Jehan and Grantaire, furiously typing on his computer. His phone buzzed every couple of minutes with constant messages from Courfeyrac who, as R had discovered, was a very enthusiastic texter. Combeferre read each text with a mixture of irritation and fondness, rolling his eyes at the regularity of the messages. Courfeyrac was supposed to be picking the mysterious Marius up from the airport after several weeks spent with his sick father in Chicago but Grantaire had no idea how Courfeyrac was getting anything done with the amount of messages he was sending.

Meanwhile, Feuilly and Bahorel were arm wrestling intensely on the table beside Jehan and Grantaire who were watching them with interest, occasionally heckling or cheering them on. Some money had exchanged hands earlier but so far the betting had been fruitless. Enjolras sat beside Combeferre, his brows furrowed as he read something on his tablet which was an almost permanent part of him. He was completely unaware of the world around him, as Grantaire had found when he had started making faces at the serious man. Eventually Cosette, who was overseeing the arm-wrestling competition, had spotted him and given him a fond but warning look.

The door to the Musain was suddenly flung open by Courfeyrac who strode in confidently, followed by a shorter man in a worn, dark coat who Grantaire assumed was Marius. Courfeyrac swept dramatically over to Combeferre who rolled his eyes as Courfeyrac kissed his cheek.  
"God, it was a disastrous journey!" he declared, pulling the chair between Enjolras and Combeferre with a flourish and sitting down.  
"It wasn't that bad," said the other man, slightly timidly in a terribly familiar accent.  
"Yes! It was!"  
"Courfeyrac is only acting this dramatically because the taxi driver was rude," Marius told Cosette, pulling off his coat. Grantaire's heart stopped and jumped to his mouth. He sat up straighter, letting Jehan slip down onto the sofa with a thud. Eponine had also straightened and was staring at Marius, shock written across her face.

Grantaire hadn't seen the man standing in front of him in years; he had never known the boy very well and Marius Gillenormand had changed a huge amount since he had left Lithicona to live with his father in Chicago. Even though, he was still recognisable as the same nervous boy Grantaire had met at a few diplomatic dinners. There was no doubt that he would recognise Grantaire.

Grantaire wondered if they had time to run out of the cafe but judging by the look on Eponine’s face she was ecstatic to see Marius. She had always been closer to him than Jehan or Grantaire as Marius had spent a summer with the Thenardiers in the mountain city Montercal, the City of Wolves and her home province. He had stayed at the Thenardier's small, cold castle when the pair were fifteen and Eponine had come back to Carroa gushing about his kindness and charm. Personally, even after meeting Marius a couple of times Grantaire could not see the boy that had entranced Eponine. He had always seemed like a nervous, clumsy boy with weak social skills. Nice enough, but hardly the dreamboat Eponine had made him out to be.

He looked more confident than he had been then, now surrounded by friends and hugging Cosette who had bounded over to him, smiling widely. Eponine looked like she was going to break the mug she was holding, gripping it as tightly as she was. Her teen crush seemed to not have been forgotten. Jehan sat up from where he had slipped, also staring at Marius.  
 _"Wait - isn't that General Gillenormand’s grandson?"_ he muttered to Grantaire in French who nodded silently.

It was like Marius had been burnt by the mention of his grandfather. He dropped his arms from Cosette's waist and his head snapping to stare in horror at Jehan. Luckily no one seemed to notice his reaction apart from Cosette who frowned in concern. There was no recognition, only panic, in Marius' eyes as he stared fixedly at Jehan, not even noticing Grantaire. Jehan had only met him twice and had changed the most since they had arrived in New York; his hair almost shoulder length and his clothes bright, flowery and casual instead of official and plain as they would have been. He was a stranger to Marius.

_"How do you know my name? Who are you?"_ asked Marius, his face carefully going blank, _"Are you working for my Grandfather?"_  
 _"No. We're hiding too. We'll explain later,"_ said Grantaire, forcing a polite smile onto his face Marius' eyes flicked to him and widened in surprise.  
 _"Your Majesty?"_  
 _"It's just R right now. This is Jehan and behind you is Nina. Don't react - please."_  
 _"Do you four know each other? Marius, is this about your Grandfather?"_ asked Cosette looking steadily more worried.  
 _"We do know each other,"_ Grantaire told her before Marius could answer, then he reverted to English, "It's good to meet someone from Nice - we should talk about home later."  
Marius nodded shakily and tried to smile weakly. Cosette's eyes were wide but like most other things she took it in her stride.  
"Well - Marius and I should get back to the flat and unpack. If you want to chat you could always walk with us?" she offered tactfully.  
"Great idea," said Jehan, jumping at the chance. Courfeyrac frowned in annoyance.  
"You only just got here! Cosette you can't steal Marius already!" he protested, a slight whine in his voice.  
"I'll be back tonight but I've got a lot to sort out," explained Marius who looked pale and nervous. Courfeyrac pouted and began to complain but Combeferre elbowed him and smiled.  
"That's okay - you must have a lot to sort out. We'll see you later."  
"Yeah, you better be there for my welcome back party!" warned Courfeyrac jokingly. Marius smiled weakly and nodded, already rushing out the door, dragging Cosette by her hand. Jehan, Eponine and Grantaire followed them quickly, nodding their goodbyes. Grantaire tried not to feel the stab of disappointment in his stomach as he noticed Enjolras still absorbed in his tablet.

The five silently walked until they were sure they were out of sight of the cafe. They paused by a beech tree with a metal bench beside it before Marius spun round and stared, horrified, at the three. There was complete quiet for a moment but then he laughed and hugged Eponine who hugged him back wistfully.  
 _"It's good to see you again, 'Ponine,"_ he told her and she gave a slight smile as she drew away and nodded in agreement.  
 _"I'm sorry but what is going on here?"_ said Cosette in faltering French.  
 _"I don't know,"_ replied Marius, _"I thought you were in hiding, your maj- R? I mean, aren't terrorists after you?"_  
 _"Yeah. We're in hiding,"_ pointed out R, _"In New York - far away from Lithicona. I think you can understand why we'd come here."_  
Marius nodded sadly and Cosette looked between them and spoke in panicked English.  
"Please say I misheard. Did you just say terrorists? What’s going on? I mean - Marius is hiding from his powerful Grandfather in Nice. Do you know his Grandfather? What do terrorists have to do with this?"  
"Cosette - I love you," started Marius, stumbling over his words but it was Jehan cut who cut him off.  
"He hasn't been 100% honest with you about his past. We haven't either. It's fair enough; the truth is pretty fucking complicated. Maybe we should go get coffee and talk."  
"If there's something you need to tell me here and now," Cosette insisted.

She dropped onto the bench and looked at them expectantly. Marius sighed and leant his head against the beech tree before sitting beside her and taking her hand.  
"I'm not- we're not from Nice. We're from a small country near Nice called Lithicona," he began.  
"You probably haven't heard of it," added R. Cosette shook her head.  
"I saw it on the news a few weeks ago. Something about the King dying? But why did you say you're from Nice when you aren't?"  
"Because we're important," snapped Nina, "Like royalty important. So Marius hides from his overbearing Grandfather while R, Jehan and hide from people that want to kill us."  
"Royalty important?" asked Cosette sounding shocked and Eponine nodded. Marius looked desperate so it was R who finally replied.  
"Royalty important," he confirmed, "You're boyfriend is Marquis Marius Gillenormand. Nina, or Eponine, is a Duchess and Jehan is an Earl."  
"Is this a joke? Did you guys get in touch and decide to play a joke on me?" checked Cosette her expression scared and taken-aback.  
"Cosette- I would never! I -" began Marius, affronted but Cosette laid a hand on his.  
"I know you wouldn't. It's not like you. I just don't understand. R - who are you?"  
"Prince Grantaire at your service," he announced with a mocking bow, trying not to let Cosette's hurt confusion affect him. Her eyes widened as she put two and two together.  
"I think I'll take you up on the coffee now," she said shakily.

Grantaire had to admit, Cosette took it very well; not interrupting as Marius and Eponine explained their pasts and why they had lied. She quietly accepted the story and readily promised not to tell the others, her expression serious. She held Marius' hand through the whole conversation and Grantaire could see Eponine struggling and failing not to be jealous. He had heard her gush about Marius when they had known each other and she had cried for hours when he had gone to America. Eventually she had stopped mentioning him wistfully and seemed to have forgotten him but it was to Grantaire it was obvious that her feelings were returning as Marius stumbled over his story.

"So do you know when you'll have to go back to Lithicona?" Cosette asked once all explanations had finished. R felt cold. He hadn't thought about returning to Lithicona for weeks, not since he met Les Amis. Javert hadn't called at all, meaning the Jehan, R and Nina had no idea about the situation in Lithicona, although Simplice had helped them with any domestic problems. They had had plenty; from an increase in the rent to not knowing how cook. Simplice must have been annoyed but she had dealt with their problems patiently.

"No idea," Jehan said, shrugging sadly. The mention of Lithicona had been avoided, partially because of the painful memories it brought up for R and Jehan. Jehan had two candles burning in his room at all times, an action which neither Grantaire nor Eponine had questioned. R had locked himself away and painted a final portrait of his father, not an official one which littered the palace, but a rare picture of the King smiling. R had taken the picture at a party one night when M. Mabuef had told a joke, making the King chuckle. It had been a strange thing to see the sternness melt away from his father's face and Grantaire had captured the moment, trying to save the rare moment. Deep down he wished the smile had been directed towards him.

All three of them had slept badly in New York and more than once Grantaire had woken up, sweating from a nightmare full of fire and screaming to find furiously scribbling poetry on the freezing balcony. R had often joined him, bringing with him a bottle of wine. Jehan had his poetry and R had his alcohol whole Eponine still knew her family was alive. Everything that had happened affected the three more deeply than they cared to admit and the only way they had carried on for so long without breaking apart was just to pretend that everything was fine. Pretending that they really were R, Nina and Jehan; just three French students visiting New York.  
Marius’ sudden and coincidental arrival had nearly shattered that pretense and made them all aware of how fragile their lives were. Just admitting everything and talking about everything that had happened had begun to chip away at the wall all three had created around the subject of their previous lives.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

The call Grantaire received from Javert a month after his settling in New York had only served to chip away the pretence even further. Simplice had been in touch a few times, calling them once a week to make sure the three of them were okay as well as establishing email contact but her knowledge of their families and the terrorist threat, the only things the three really wanted to hear about, was limited.

When Grantaire's mobile rang it was Jehan who answered. Grantaire was sitting across the room, sketching Eponine who had her nose deep in a book on the history of feminism, borrowed from Musichetta most probably. He looked up curiously as Jehan picked up the phone, answering with a casual, "Hello?"

The pencil Jehan was holding fell from his hand as a voice crackled out of the receiver. A look of shock passed over his face and he nodded before realising that he couldn’t be seen, "Yeah, Grantaire’s here. I'll just pass you on."

He quickly strode over to where Grantaire was lounging and held out the phone.  
"Javert," Jehan mouthed as Grantaire took the proffered mobile. Grantaire's eyes widened and he quickly pushed pushing away his sketchbook and pencils.  
"Javert," he stiffly greeted the Captain, "What's the news?"  
"Unfortunately there isn't much," Javert's stern voice said with a sigh.  
"Put it on speaker," said Eponine who had dropped her book at the mention of Javert's name and was perching tensely on the edge of the sofa. Grantaire did what she said and Javert's voice crackled loudly out of the speakers.  
"Patron-Minette is harder to find than expected. They are professionals - not just a bunch of radical college kids like we expected. There is now more evidence to show that someone with a lot of power is protecting them and giving them information."  
"So you just called us to say there's no more information?" asked Grantaire, unable to keep the sarcasm and anger out of his voice. He had hoped for actual news and it was painful to have that ripped away.  
"Be careful with your tone," warned Javert, "No, actually. I need to speak to Eponine about her brother."  
An expression of absolute panic bloomed on Eponine's face and she shot across the room to grabhe phone from Grantaire.  
"What's happened? Fuck, is Gavroche hurt?" she shouted desperately.  
"A member of the royal family shouldn't swear," Javert scolded in a bored tone.  
"I couldn’t give a fuck! Tell me what's happened to my brother!" There was a noise from the other end of the line and then a younger voice came through the speaker.  
"I'm fine 'Ponine," said Gavroche, "I've just been bugging him to speak to you." Eponine dropped into the sofa, her eyes closing with relief.  
"Oh thank god," she sighed, looking shaky, "How are you? What's going on?"  
"I’m okay. Not much is happening but all the adults are super serious. I'm with the twins, they're okay. Mother and Father didn't want us but Azelma's staying with them."  
"Mother and Father are twats, you don't want to stay with them," Eponine told her brother with a relieved smile. Grantaire and Jehan watched her in silence.  
"Yeah I know. I'm glad they don't want me because I don't want to be with them. It's much more fun here," replied Gavroche cheerfully. R knew how the Duke and Duchess Thenardier had a tense relationship with four of their five children. Azelma was the only one they could control, being the only one who went along with their rumoured criminal activities. The Thenardiers had more scandals to their name than houses, and they owned an awful lot of houses. The only reason that they were still Duchess and Duke of Montercal, the famous City of the Wolves, was the close bond Madame Thenardier had had with her half-brother; Grantaire's father.

"I'm sure it is," said Eponine with a fond smile.  
"Yeah and I keep pissing off Javert cause I don't listen to what he tells me to. The only reason he's phoning you today is ‘cause I kept bugging him to! He wants you to get me, Rene and Michel to behave."  
"Don't say pissing, it's not polite. And you should be polite to Javert."  
"I've heard you say worse! And you pis- annoy Javert all the time. Like you ran away before we all had to go into hiding!"  
"Well I'm an adult and you're nine. Anyway, Grantaire, Jehan and I haven't run away. We're having to hide as well."  
"Where? Can I come visit? Michel and Rene wanna see you too!"  
"I'm too far away, in a city that never sleeps," said Eponine with a laugh in her voice, "I want to see you too but I can't. Sorry Gav."  
"There’s a city that never sleeps? Now I really wanna go. Do you not have bedtime there at all? I don't want bedtime, it’s not like I need it. Please can I come? Javert wants to send me back to Mother and Father ‘cause I'm too much of an 'inconvenience'. Can we come stay with you instead?"  
"I've already said you can't, Gav. Go back and say hi to 'Zelma for me. Okay? And you do need bedtime."  
"No I don't!" Gavroche argued.  
"Yeah you do," replied Eponine in a bored tone that suggested that she had had that particular argument before. Gavroche was famous for defying any type of authority but for some reason he did sometimes listen to his oldest sister.  
"No I don- Javert wants the phone back. Please, please, please can me, Mic and Ren come stay with you? Please?"  
"Mic, Ren and I,” Eponine corrected absent-mindedly, “I'm sorry Gav but no can do. Give them my love though. You want to say hi to Jehan and R- Grantaire?"  
"Yeah - are they there? Hi guys! 'Taire, you're my friend. Can I come and live with you? We can keep drawing our comic!"  
"Hey Gav," said R, unable to stop his smile from invading his tone. He was fond of Gavroche and had encouraged his rebellious nature, "As much as I'd love to keep up the comic you need to listen to your sister. We'll keep drawing when I get back, okay?"  
There was a long pause before Gavroche gave an annoyed humph which sounded a bit like 'fine'.  
"Hey Gav," said Jehan and there was a happier squeak from the phone.  
"Hey Jehan!"  
"The thing is, you need to stay in Lithicona so you can do a really, really important job. I need you to keep looking after my plants, alright? The only maid who can look after them properly is Floreal but she's always busy so before you go to Montercal or wherever you are going can you ask her how to look after them and then take them with you? I don't trust just anyone with my plants so I need you to take really good care of them. Can you do that for me?" asked Jehan seriously. Eponine gave him a grateful glance.  
"Yeah, I can do that. I'll take really good care of them, I promise," said Grantaire, taking the bait, “So you guys aren't in Lithicona? Where are you? Tell me, please!"

There was a loud sound and a muffled "Hey!" from the other end of the line and Javert's voice suddenly came through clearly.  
"Yes, Eponine what I wanted to ask is do we have permission to send your brothers back to Montercal? We tried to contact your parents but we couldn't get a clear answer."  
Eponine made a face, "It's my parents; of course you can't. Do you have to send them back? I don't like the idea of them taking care of Gavroche, Michel and Rene. Azelma can take care of herself and my mother adores her so she's fine but they wouldn't give a f- wouldn't care about the three of them."  
"We'll be sending some staff with them to make sure they're cared for properly. We can't look after three children under the age of ten with the situation we have in the palace. They're constantly underfoot and there are a lot of very important conferences happening," came the cold reply.  
"Oh! Send Floreal - she's great with kids. Tell her to take my plants as well. Also Nicole is a sweetheart," said Jehan quickly. Eponine rolled her eyes and bit her lip.  
"Is it safe for them to go to Montercal at a time like this?" she asked worriedly.  
"They'll be fine. All safety precautions will be taken and there will be no danger," assured Javert. After a long pause Eponine let out a long breath.

Fine. I give permission and all that shit. But if they get hurt I'll come after you, understand?" she said lightly.  
"A member of the Royal family shoul-" began Javert but Eponine cut him off.  
"Should not threaten, swear, yeah, yeah. But if my actual family gets hurt in any way, Royal Manners go out of the window. I'm blaming you and I will get you."  
"I promise they will be safe," said Javert, taking her seriously.  
"I'll hold you to that," said Eponine sweetly before hanging up and tossing the phone onto the floor. A crack formed along its screen.

"Fuck," she said, trying to hold back her tears and burying her head. It was clear she wasn’t crying about the phone.  
"Fuck," Jehan said, sitting beside her and resting a comforting hand on her shoulder, biting his lip.  
"Fuck," agreed R, trying to swallow the emotions the phone call had brought up.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

The next day the three of them sat uncharacteristically quietly in the corner of the Musain. Usually Eponine was loudly chatting with Bahorel and Feuilly (carefully ignoring Marius, hand-in-hand with Cosette) while Jehan discussed poetry and literature with Combeferre and Musichetta who had been delighted to find someone who knew barely anything about modern literature but desperately wanted to find out. They were always gushing about various books, from Harry Potter to Chaucer, which Jehan had never had access to while R usually sat with Bossuet and Joly, drinking and chatting.

The tight-knit group of Les Amis had happily accepted the three newcomers as close friends but they had never questioned them. They accepted how secretive the three were about their parents in the same way they had accepted Marius' vague back-story of an oppressive Grandfather or the way Feuilly rarely talked about his childhood. They had even accepted Jehan's nervousness and anxiety, Eponine's angry outbursts and Grantaire's near constant drinking and his often-cruel, drunken comments. Once, after a particularly bitter argument between him and Enjolras, Grantaire had asked Bossuet and Joly why Les Amis put up with him.

Because we're your friends," Bossuet had answered simply.  
"Because friends stick with each other, no matter what faults they have. Everyone's human, after all," Joly had expanded.  
"I mean look at us; I'm the clumsiest, unluckiest person ever and Joly is pretty much a hypochondriac but it doesn't matter cause we're family and we'll love each other whatever happens."  
"Ohana," Joly had said in a very serious tone, taking R and Bossuet's hand.  
"What?" R had asked in complete confusion.  
"Ohana means family and family means no one gets left behind," said Bossuet as if it constituted an explanation. Seeing R's utter confusion, he had continued, "You know? Lilo and Stitch?"  
"Lilo and what?"

Bossuet had been so shocked by the fact R, Jehan and Nina had never seen Lilo and Stitch he had fallen over as he stood up too quickly. They had rushed to tell Courfeyrac who, after an intense and confusing interrogation, found out that the three of them had only ever seen the Little Mermaid, declared it a disaster and rushed all twelve of them back to his flat for a 48-hour Disney marathon.  
R had ended up sitting awkwardly beside Enjolras but had soon forgotten about the surly God sitting on one of the many sofas beside him and become engrossed in Disney movies. He had caught Enjolras staring at him one time when he laughed at Mushu and had quickly stopped laughing, returning to cradling his bottle of beer in silence. Enjolras had quickly looked away when they made eye contact, not that R blamed him; after nearly 24 hours of sitting on the same sofa, he couldn't have looked particularly great.

He had excused himself twice during the Lion King, once at 'I Just Can't Wait to be King' and just before Mufasa died. He had tried to block the movie out, focusing on the crack in the sink and his reflection in the mirror. He had put on weight since he came to New York, with more alcohol and less exercise than before. Maybe he should have taken Bahorel and Feuilly on their offer of a boxing match at the gym. Eventually he had been forced to go back and watch the rest of the movie, trying to lose himself in the plot as he had done with the others but he could see himself in Simba and he couldn't stop himself from glancing at Jehan and Eponine who seemed to be in the same state of discomfort. It was a nice enough movie but it hit too close to home and he had felt sick throughout the whole film.

It had been the same feeling as they felt the day after Javert had called but in the daylight it was more obvious. Cosette was the first to notice; she seemed to have all the perceptiveness that Marius lacked. She whispered to Marius and elbowed Courfeyrac, gesturing discretely at the three. Courfeyrac caught on quickly, noticing his friend’s glum expressions. He slipped his arms round Combeferre's waist and muttered it into his ear. Combeferre didn't even glance their way as he leant across the table to talk quietly to Enjolras who frowned and glanced over.  
Grantaire caught his eye but quickly looked away, reaching for a bottle only to find he didn't have one. Courfeyrac had already casually migrated to the counter where Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta lurked and muttered Cosette's observation to them under the guise of ordering a coffee. Cosette dragged over Marius over to watch Bahorel and Feuilly having an intense game of poker and quietly told them. R, Jehan and Nina didn't notice the spread of information but minutes later they found themselves surrounded by their friends who had somehow all squeezed onto one small table.

"So what's up?" asked Courfeyrac who was perched dangerously on Combeferre's lap.  
"Why the long faces?" asked Musichetta who was sat on the table.  
"What? Nothing. We're fine," said Grantaire too quickly and Jehan and Nina nodded. There were several disbelieving expressions but no one pushed the issue. Bahorel looked like he was going to, squished onto the same chair as Feuilly, but Cosette gave him a look which shut him up.  
"Whatever it is," said Courfeyrac, "We've got some stuff which will cheer you up."

"There's a protest," Enjolras continued the explanation, "On the fifth of March. It's about the right to have chosen pronouns on official documents."  
"So that gender-queer people can express their own gender identity," Combeferre continued. The three of them did that sometimes, in a creepy, twin-like way. "We were hoping you would come?"  
"Wait being gender-queer is a thing?" asked Jehan, confused and Musichetta gave him a smile, "Of course, honey," and began to explain the concept while the others looked at R and Nina expectantly.  
"Yeah okay, it's sounds pretty cool, as long as we won't get in the way," agreed Eponine. Courfeyrac gave a smile.  
"Great, we want as many people as possible up on stage with us for TV coverage so the more the merrier," he told them and Grantaire's blood ran cold. He shot a desperate glance at Eponine who looked panicked  
"Well, we might not. I've got some family stuff that’s happening in March. It might be the fifth," Jehan lied unconvincingly, picking up on Eponine and Grantaire's concern, "R and Nina might have to come with me." R and Nina nodded, relieved at the excuse but the others looked doubtful.

Are you sure you can't make it?" asked Musichetta suspiciously.  
"It's okay if you can't," Cosette cut in quickly – the problems of TV cameras around the three dawning on her, "You can still help with the preparation and stuff, can't you?"  
"Yeah of course," Eponine said with obvious relief.  
"R, can you paint a banner for our group?" Bossuet asked, noticing the three's discomfort.  
"Doesn't Feuilly usually do that?" asked Enjolras frowning.  
"I'm busy for the next couple of weeks," said Feuilly with a shrug, "Anyway R is better at painting."  
"Oh," said Enjolras, ducking his head. He never argued with Feuilly, though Grantaire assumed he would have protested more if it had been Grantaire who had suggested painting the banners.

A few days before March fifth, R heard his name shouted from the living room. He emerged from his room holding a can of red spray-paint he had been using to paint Les Amis' banner and posters to find Jehan sitting at the kitchen table looking worried, a glass of water perched in front of him. Eponine was hovering beside him, looking confused and concerned.  
"Please, guys have a seat," said Jehan seriously. Eponine and Grantaire complied, frowning at Jehan who wouldn't meet their eyes.  
"What's wrong?" asked Eponine.  
"Nothing!" replied Jehan, too quickly. The pair gave him doubtful looks so he started again, "Nothing's 'wrong'. Really. It's just there are three things I need to talk to you about," said Jehan carefully studying his glass of water.  
"Sure, go ahead," said Grantaire, leaning back in his chair and staring at friend, concerned. Jehan was silent for a moment until Eponine made a prompting noise and he quickly began to speak.

"Look, I don't really know how to say any of these things," admitted Jehan, stumbling over his words slightly, "but I've been talking to Musichetta about the protest and it's really opened my eyes to issues that I never noticed before. Issues such as gender." He paused and gave both Eponine and Grantaire a long, hopeful look but they just stared back in confusion. He sighed and continued, looking down at his fraying coat sleeve and plucking at a loose thread.

"I've never really felt quite like a proper boy before. I've just never been comfortable with just having to dress up in trousers and learning all the traditional 'male' things. There was always a clear part of me that wanted to grow my hair long and wear floral dresses with Eponine instead of wrestling with Grantaire. Not, that I minded messing around with you Grantaire. I just wanted to be able to wear a dress and stuff as well."

"So you're saying you want to be a girl?" asked Eponine gently but Jehan quickly shook his head.  
"No, no, it's not like that. I don't want to be a girl, I'm not transgender. But I don't particularly want to be a boy either. Do you get it?" he said, looking desperately at his friends.  
"I think so," said Grantaire slowly, trying to remember what Enjolras had been talking about at the last meeting, "You don't fit into the, um, gender binary?"  
"Exactly," replied Jehan happily with a wave of his hand, "I'm agender. So, when you talk about me can you call me 'they' for now? I'm going to look into other pronouns and see which I feel fits me best but for now I'm only sure that I'm not 'he' or 'she'."  
"Of course, we can do that," said Eponine, rolling her eyes, "I thought it was going to be something bad, like you were ill or something."  
"No problem," said Grantaire smiling at Jehan who looked relieved, "So what were the other things?"

"Um... I'm asexual," said Jehan quickly, glancing back down at his glass of water as he spoke.  
"A- what?" asked Eponine.  
"Asexual. And Aromantic," explained Jehan, "I'm not attracted to anyone, romantically or sexually. I just, don't feel that way about people. Of course, I love my friends, platonically and I love, uh - loved, my family. I just don't want a relationship. Ever."

A cloud passed over his face as he mentioned his parents. They hadn't been bad people and they had loved Jehan, in their half-absent way. But Grantaire doubted they would be as accepting of hi- them as Grantaire and Eponine were. Jehan was still staring sadly at his coffee so Grantaire shook himself out of his reverie.

"You aren't getting rid of us that easily," he joked, smiling comfortingly at Jehan who smiled weakly back, "We're sticking around - no matter what."  
Eponine reached across the table and took Jehan's hand, squeezing gently.  
"Thank you for telling us," she said gently and a real smile spread across his face as he looked at his friends.

"So what was the third thing?" asked Eponine and Jehan laughed, slightly nervously.  
"Oh yeah, I've started some night classes at the university. Poetry; just so I get more practice, you know? So don't be alarmed if I'm sneaking out at all hours of the night."  
Eponine nodded, "Awesome. Any type of poetry in particular?"  
"Not really. I know a lot about the romantics, so I wanted to expand on that. R, are you okay?"  
"I'm fine," lied R through gritted teeth, "I just need the toilet."

The truth was that Jehan's last confession had made his stomach churn and a cold sweat break out across his back. He felt clammy and dizzy as he stumbled to the toilet, scared he was going to puke. It was like fear, or panic. It was like being trapped in a too-small space. Being trapped in a too-small life. He knew he should feel happy for Jehan but the panicky feeling overwhelmed him as he leant his head against the door.

Jehan and Eponine had moved on from Lithicona. Eponine had started helping Musichetta out at the Musain when business got too busy and was thinking of starting to work full-time, Jehan had grown out his hair like it was going to stay like that and started night classes. They didn't feel trapped, surrounded like Grantaire did. They weren't constantly glancing over their shoulders to see if Patron-Minette or Javert was coming after them.

Grantaire was.

The realisation of that was pretty much an epiphany to Grantaire. It was a Eureka moment, sending Archimedes running through the streets. He felt like crying and laughing at the same time. Grantaire needed to forget Lithicona; it would be his only way of stemming the constant grief which had been flooding over him since his father's death. Maybe it would work. At least it was worth a try.

R was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't hear Jehan outside the bathroom until they spoke cautiously.  
"Hey, R. Are you okay? I'm sorry if I upset you."  
Grantaire took a deep breath and stepped back, unlocking the door and opening it to find Jehan, dressed in a bright yellow t-shirt and dark green jeans, standing outside nervously. He forced a smile onto his face.

"I'm fine," said R again, not quite lying this time.  
"Are you sure? Because I quit the class-"  
"Don't be stupid, of course you should do the classes. I'm gonna need your help in deciding which line of poetry I should get on tattooed."  
"You're getting a tattoo?" asked Jehan, confused.  
"Yeah, but first I really want to get drunk and tell you about this realisation I just had," said R, trying his hardest to be casual as he slung an arm round Jehan's shoulders.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

For some reason, the kids seemed to adore him and he was always greeted by happy shouts of 'R!' One kid in particular, a feisty nine year old reminded him of Gavroche. He was always getting too passionate when sparring but had a quick wit and a really good grasp of sarcasm for a nine year old. Some of the younger kids reminded him of Michel and Rene; standing quietly in the shadows while watching the older kids running around, constantly full of energy. It was exhausting but Grantaire had to admit he loved it, even Anna-Marie, a tiny six year old who never talked, just hung onto R's trouser leg as he walked around the gym. He tried to ignore the eight year old who lurked in the back with the blue eyes painfully identical to what his brother’s had been.

Usually before going to the gym he met up with Bahorel and Feuilly at the Musain for a drink before heading to the gym seven blocks away. Since Eponine had started working there he always arrived early to chat to her before they arrived. One day he was surprised to see that the front of the cafe was unusually empty. Sighing he made his way behind the counter and was about to push the door to the kitchen open when he heard voices.

He knew he shouldn't eavesdrop but R had never exercised good judgement. Grantaire leant in and listened. One was the familiar, accented English of Eponine while the other sounded like Enjolras. There was a clicking which sounded like typing and R realised that Enjolras must be writing the speech for that night’s meeting. He listened closer and began to recognise words.

"That bit sounds too angry," said Eponine and there was the sound of the keyboard.  
"What about that phrase?" asked Enjolras and there was a pause before Eponine replied, "No, I think that's good."  
Grantaire found his ear pressed up against the crack between the old wooden door and the doorframe. It would be terrible if someone walked in on him but he had his eye on the street and his ear to the back room so he was pretty sure he would know if someone was coming. He focused on the conversation again, listening closely even though he was hardly interested. It was just a gut feeling: telling him he shouldn’t disturb the conversation just yet, and mixed with pure nosiness.

"There's this as well. I was going to put it in but I didn't think that R would understand it," Enjolras confidently began to say to Nina but his voice faltered awkwardly as he realised what he said. Grantaire inhaled sharply at Enjolras' words, like he had been punched. It was true then, Enjolras really did believe he was stupid.  
"What?" asked Eponine in a cold voice.  
"Uh - look, I'll put it in anyway. Just forget it," said Enjolras hurriedly. Grantaire could imagine the angry look on Eponine's face, her features turning to stone. He hadn't seen it much before but he had to admit that Eponine terrified him. The girl from the City of Wolves lived up to origins and Grantaire knew from experience that the one thing which set Eponine on the war path was someone insulting her friends.

"If you think R is stupid or something you're deluding yourself," she snapped, her voice like ice. Enjolras started to mutter something but Eponine cut him off sharply.  
"No, you do think he's dumb. You sure as hell act like it and what you just said confirmed it. But if you really believe R is stupid then you're the idiot. I've grown up around a lot of very, very clever people but R is still one of the smartest people I've ever met. He can tell exactly what's going on in a room the second he walks in, God knows he's had to learn that young. He can recite the history of Europe backwards so don't tell me he wouldn't understand the significance of some pathetic Shakespeare quote. I've heard him recite passages from Hamlet in five different languages and you have the fucking audacity to think he wouldn’t get it. Have you forgotten about the Dutch incident at the soup kitchen?"  
There was a murmur from Enjolras and Eponine triumphantly continued, "Exactly! You can tell Jehan's a genius the moment you start talking to them but I would go as far as saying R is smarter than them in a lot of ways, and they both leave me in the dust. Compared to my friends I'm an idiot. So don't talk to me about whether or not R would understand when it's you who obviously can't fucking get your head around the fact that if someone disagrees with and gets drunk sometimes it doesn't mean they're stupid!"

Her voice had risen to almost a shout and Grantaire was shocked at her praise. It was more than she had ever said to his face and there was a tongue of warmth curling inside his stomach at Eponine's words.  
"I didn't mean it like that," replied Enjolras after a long silence, "I don't think R is stupid or anything like that-"  
"Oh for fucks sake Enjolras, let go of your god damn pride for once and admit you were wrong," said Eponine tiredly.  
"Fine. But if he's as clever as you say why does he always act the way he does?" snapped Enjolras.  
"Because unlike you, not everybody wants to show off how clever they are," said Eponine harshly. There was silence and her voice softened slightly, "R's got a lot of reasons and they aren't mine to tell. I don't think he cares enough. But everyone else has figured out the R is as smart, kind, talented and good apart from you. You need to pull your head out of your ass and realise that just because someone is intelligent in different ways doesn't make them stupider than you. Also, if you value your pretty hair don't ever insult my friends again."

Grantaire heard a chair scrape and he flinched away from the door, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping. As he turned to quietly make his way out from behind the counter he heard Eponine say one last thing to Enjolras.  
"By the way, half the time he lets you win the arguments you have."  
"Why?"  
"Because he wants you to be right. Also if you repeat any of this you can wave goodbye to your hair."

The door swung open to reveal Eponine looking furious in her colourful Musain apron but her face softened slightly when she caught sight of her cousin.  
"Oh, hey R. Been waiting long?" she asked already going to the counter to make his usual Irish coffee.  
"No, I just got in," R lied, trying to act casual. Luckily he was saved by the arrival of Bahorel and Feuilly and the conversation between Enjolras and Eponine was quickly forgotten as they left for the gym.

Still, that night R made sure to acknowledge the Shakespeare reference in the speech about abortion and to even combat the point with a quote from Taming of the Shrew. It was amusing to watch Enjolras' eyes flick quickly to Nina who was smiling self-congratulatory.  
"You can't really be suggesting women are less reasonable than men and therefore shouldn't be able to choose what happens to their own bodies?" Enjolras asked angrily.  
"Of course not, I'm just pointing out you shouldn't use Shakespeare in a speech about feminism. He was an outspoken misogynist," pointed out R pedantically.

Enjolras scowled and continued with his speech but R was aware that Enjolras seemed to pay more attention to his cynical comments after that.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

A week later Grantaire had been teaching, his voice echoing in the open hall as he instructed kids on the proper stance. The nine year-old who reminded him most of Gavroche, Adrien, was standing off centre and Grantaire was gently correcting his guard. He lifted the boy's hands up, positioning them correcting while explaining why it was important to be in the right position.

"You need balance. If you're stable enough then even if the person you're fighting gets past your guard it won't knock you off balance. You can retaliate before they're properly in stance again," he told the class who stared at him, wide eyed and fists raised, "You can move quickly. It's important that you keep your guard up as well; that will stop your opponent from actually landing a blow. You need to keep your right hand near-"

He trailed off as he noticed the blond figure standing in the doorway, arms crossed as he watched. Grantaire paused and Enjolras nodded awkwardly at him when their eyes met. Enjolras' eyes were very blue and very intense, Grantaire noticed. Apollo was impossible to ignore

"There's just something I need to deal with," he told the group, "Line up and practice your speed drills for a couple of minutes. Everyone know what they have to do?"  
There was a chorus of "Yes, R" and the kids hurried into their lines. They began the drills; the younger ones simply punching the air while the older ones had longer, more complicated sequences involving kicking and dodging.

"Adrien - slow down before you hurt yourself," R called out, "Slow and correct is better than fast and sloppy. You too George." He turned away from the kids and walked over to Enjolras who was still hovering in the entrance to the hall.

"Hey," Grantaire greeted him, painfully aware of how sweaty he must look, "How can I help you?"  
"I was just wondering about the signs for the protest," said Enjolras stiffly, "Bahorel told me where to find you."  
"Yeah - they're at my place," Grantaire said, brushing his hair away from his face, "Jehan or Nina might be in if you want to drop by now but my class finishes in about ten minutes. If you aren't too busy you can wait and we can walk back?" He didn’t know quite why he offered. Time spent with Enjolras never ended well. They would undoubtedly argue and it was painful to watch a sneer creep across Apollo’s face. Grantaire prayed Enjolras would turn his offer down.

Enjolras nodded quickly, "I'll wait. Should I just sit here and watch or-?"  
"There's a TV and stuff upstairs if you want," Grantaire suggested hopefully but Enjolras shook his head.  
"I'm okay here," he reassured and R sighed inwardly. He already felt self-conscious and he hadn't even started working yet.  
"Whatever you want to do, Apollo," he said, hoping Enjolras would lose focus after a while, "I need to teach kids though so don’t start any arguments.  
Enjolras scowled, looking almost disappointed. "Don't call me Apollo," he snapped but then paused before speaking again, "I won't disturb you. Don't worry."

Grantaire nodded awkwardly and returned to the children.  
"Okay - you can stop now. You're all looking pretty good," he told them and the kids beamed at the simple praise, "Now: back to stances. Can anybody tell me why it's important to keep your guard up?"

After ten minutes parents began to trickle into the hall and R dismissed the class. The kids filed out, shouting back their thanks. Anna-Marie ran up and silently hugged his leg, beaming up at him with her gap-toothed smile. He chuckled and ruffled her hair before she ran off. Adrien wandered up, looking mischievous but R didn't feel alarmed. Years of looking after Gavroche had prepared him for whatever comment Adrien had prepared.

"So is blondie your boyfriend, R?" Adrien asked, fiddling with his green belt. Grantaire stared at the boy in surprise. Maybe he hadn't been prepared for that.  
"No. Enjolras is- uh- just a friend," Grantaire said awkwardly.  
"You sound kind of unsure," Adrien pointed out and Grantaire laughed slightly sadly.  
"I'm unsure if we actually count as friends," he replied, "Not if he's my boyfriend or not. What gave you that idea?"  
"Well, he was staring at you all the time he's been in here," Adrien whispered confidentially, "All intense like."  
"Well that's because he's quite an intense guy. Good word by the way," Grantaire said and Adrien looks proud.  
"I learnt it at school," he told R with a grin.  
"Well keep learning - no more getting into fights, yeah?" Grantaire said as Adrien's mum appeared in the doorway, "See you next week kiddo."  
"Bye, R!" shouted Adrien as he dashed away, waving over his shoulder. R waved back.

Enjolras walked up behind him.  
"You're good with kids," he commented stiffly and Grantaire gave a tight smile.  
"Thanks," he replied, "Shall we go? I need to text Feuilly to say I won't be going back to the Musain with him and Bahorel."

It was a warm day outside - making R infinitely grateful that he had changed out of his sweaty shirt. He and Enjolras walked down the streets of New York in silence until Enjolras finally spoke.  
"Sorry for interrupting your evening with Bahorel and Feuilly," he said formally. Grantaire shrugged and hoisted his sports bag higher on his shoulder.  
"It's okay. They'll be fine without me," he said and the conversation lulled until Enjolras spoke again.

"You were good with the children," he said softly, "They really like you."  
"Thanks. They're nice kids - most of them anyway. A few of them are little terrors," Grantaire replied with a fond smile.  
"So do you have any brothers or sisters?" Enjolras asked, his tone nonchalant. Grantaire felt cold suddenly, despite the afternoon sun. He had carefully skirted round the topic with his other friends yet barely two sentences into one of his few civil conversations with Enjolras, Apollo had gone and asked him the dreaded question.

"Uh- I used to have an older brother. His name was Rene," Grantaire said shortly, hoping Enjolras wouldn't ask any more questions as he doubted he would be able to refuse answering Apollo. The universe was rarely so obliging.  
"Used to?" Enjolras asked, a frown wrinkling his perfect brow. Grantaire sighed.  
"He died when he was eight. I was five. It was a long time ago," Grantaire told Enjolras quietly.  
"I'm sorry," Enjolras said, "If you don't mind me asking - how did he die?" Grantaire was silent for a long time, the memory still made him nauseas, and Enjolras quickly continued, "Sorry. Is it one of those things that people don't want to talk about? Combeferre was telling me not to ask-"

Grantaire cut him off. "It's fine," he reassured the blond, "Like I said - long time ago. Fourteen years."  
Enjolras glanced at him, looking confused.  
"I thought you were 21," he commented and Grantaire swore inwardly as he realised his mistake.  
"Yeah - sixteen years," he lied – he found himself doing that a lot lately, "It tends to blur after that long."  
Enjolras shrugged. One of the strangest parts of being 'R' was being 21, placing him as one of the oldest of Les Amis where in fact he was almost the youngest.

"We, I mean, he ran off one day to play in the garden," Grantaire began to explain, "We had a big garden and there was a tree house at the bottom."  
It had been a proper tree house; huge and hidden far from nosy servants or bossy palace officials. It had been Rene and Nicolas' kingdom so of course they had run there after giving their tutor the slip one day. It had been Rene's plan; Rene was always the one plan, the one who was in charge and he was also the one who could sweet talk his way out of anything. He had been a perfect future candidate for future King, taking care of his shy, yet troublesome younger brother. People at the palace had cooed at the pair’s closeness; attributing it to the lack of their mother.

"I'm not sure what happened," Grantaire lied again, "but as he climbed up the ladder broke and he fell. Snapped his neck. He died instantly. They found his body a few hours later."  
The words were cold and unfamiliar and all lies. Grantaire knew exactly what had happened but he didn't want to tell Enjolras what it had been like to be in the tree house, to hear the loud snap of the ladder, his brother's scared scream. There had been a horrible crunch as Rene hit the ground and his brother, only eight years old, had let out a sob that almost sounded like Grantaire's name: Nicolas.

He didn't want to have relive hanging out of the doorway, staring down at the broken, silent form of his brother. He didn't want to remember the hours he had spent crying, unable to leave the tree house due to the broken ladder as he desperately prayed his brother would wake up. He had only been five; he hadn't quite understood the concept of death but he had known something was fundamentally wrong. He had felt so sick, so afraid and so trapped.

Grantaire wanted to forget. He wanted to forget the maid who wandered into the clearing, words of relief on her lips until she had seen the mangled body of the young crown prince and began to scream. She had screamed Grantaire's name, calling for him but he hadn't been able to shout back. His voice was too raw from all the unheard screaming he had done earlier. Her face had been so pale as she stared up at him, sitting in the doorway of the treehouse, his face streaked with tears. Grantaire tried to ignore the taste if bile that automatically rose with the memory.

"That's -" Enjolras began but tailed off, looking intensely at Grantaire as they walked, "I'm so sorry. That must have been awful for you."  
"I was young," Grantaire snapped, "I’m okay." He stuck his hands in his pockets and sped up, trying to ignore Apollo’s gentle gaze which seemed to be burning a hole in his neck. The last thing he wanted, the last thing he deserved was Enjolras’ sympathy.

It was a lie as well. He hadn't been okay - of course he hadn't. He had refused to answer to the name Nicolas because all he could hear was the maid screaming or his brother's final broken sob. Eventually everyone in the palace had given up and only called him by his surname; Grantaire. He hit anyone who got it wrong until his father had brought in a martial arts instructor. There had been months of barely speaking, meetings with therapist after therapist, crying at the mere mention of Rene and the horrible nightmares that went on for years.

Sometimes he still got them.

But he didn't want to tell Enjolras that. He didn't want to tell Enjolras how he had cried himself seven years ago when the Thenardiers had named their son 'Rene' and how he just called the boy 'kid' or 'squirt' because the name Rene tasted sour in his mouth after yelling it over and over again.

Enjolras must have sensed Grantaire's reluctance to continue the subject because he fell silent until they got to Grantaire’s block of flats. Grantaire had grown used to how run-down it always looked but as Enjolras wrinkled his nose distastefully he felt a flush of embarrassment.

“It’s – um – nice,” Enjolras said awkwardly, clearing his throat.

“It’s a dump,” Grantaire stated flatly, “Jehan likes it though – says it has a good ‘atheistic.’”

Enjolras made a doubtful noise which Grantaire agreed with whole-heartedly.

“So the lift is working today,” he said with obvious relief, “Though it probably smells of pee. But at least you aren’t going to have to walk down seven flights with all the signs. They’re pretty heavy.”

“What, the lift doesn’t always work?” asked Enjolras, sounding surprised, “You have to walk up seven flights?”

“You’d be surprised how quickly you get used to it ,” Grantaire said with sincerity, remembering when his reaction been the same as Enjolras’. He’d got used to living without luxuries pretty quickly although he still missed things like bath tubs and having proper meals regularly. Simplice had forced the three to budget after the first couple of months.

“This place should be condemned,” muttered Enjolras as he stepped out of the lift, finally breathing again.

“It’s not that bad,” protested Grantaire, “The flats are nice enough. It’s mainly just the hallways. Though we do have hookers on our floor which is a bit weird.” Enjolras flushed and Grantaire wondered what kind of upbringing Enjolras’ must have had to make him react more strongly than royalty at the word ‘hookers’.

“Joly would probably force you to move out,” Enjolras commented as Grantaire unlocked the door and let them into the empty flat; painfully aware of how messy it was. R, Jehan and Eponine weren't great at keeping their flat clean without maids to help them. Every few days the pile of dishes grew too large and someone caved in and washed them but the flat was usually in a state of disrepair anyway.

Usually it was only Marius round- talking about Lithicona. It was nice to be able to talk about home and not keep secrets from everyone. Both Cosette and Marius were supportive and helpful as they could be although Marius had once slipped up and called Eponine by her real name instead of Nina in front of Courfeyrac. Luckily he had been too busy texting Combeferre to actually notice but it had been close.

“Sorry it’s a dump,” Grantaire told Enjolras, feeling himself flush with embarrassment as he grabbed a few unwashed coffee mugs.  
"It's fine," Enjolras reassured, "I live with Combeferre and Courfeyrac. You wouldn't believe some of the things they leave lying around. I threw out some mouldy cheese once and it turned out to be an experiment. Combeferre wouldn't speak to me for three days. And Courfeyrac is just a whirlwind of mess."  
Grantaire smiled, "Try living with Jehan. Never ever throw scraps of paper away - they could be the latest master piece."  
Enjolras laughed and Grantaire blushed. He had heard Enjolras laugh before, though it was a rare occurrence, but he had never caused it. He felt embarrassingly proud and just wanted to hear the laugh again.

"To be honest I can't be great to live with either," he admitted as he led Enjolras towards his bedroom, "I just leave paper and paint everywhere."  
Enjolras hummed in agreement, "When I get too involved in a project I can just forget to move and things just pile up around me."  
"What?! The great Apollo has human flaws as well?" R teased, his voice incredulous. He immediately felt like hitting himself as a disappointed frown appeared on Enjolras face and his expression became closed off. The conversation had been normal, friendly even and then Grantaire had gone and messed it up.

Grantaire's room was messier than the rest of the house; his bed unmade while piles of half-used canvases and sketchbooks lay on the floor. Grantaire had gone a bit insane when he realised no one was restricting what art supplies he brought and he now had everything; from coloured pencils to fabric paints. Half the packages lay unopened beneath his bed but Grantaire had promised himself he would use them one day. His father had always disapproved of the amount of time Grantaire spent on art and had disapproved of his son's casual, non-precise style. In New York there had been nothing to hold Grantaire back and he had painted whatever he wanted to paint in a hundred different styles. It was the only time he let himself be really emotional.

"Yeah - the banners are probably round here somewhere," Grantaire muttered, kicking some dirty clothes under his bed and crouching next to a prospective looking pile of papers but Enjolras was too distracted by the drawings and paintings Grantaire had stuck to his wall. There were several of the Musain, studies in bright pastels and water colours. Jehan cropped up several times; painted with flowers or books. There was many of Eponine - black and white with the occasional strong colours creating contrast. One sketch showed Marius and Cosette, hand-in-hand on a park bench while the other Amis had their own drawings; Musichetta dancing in the Musain with Joly and Bossuet, Bahorel and Feuilly arm wrestling next to bottles of beer, Combeferre and Courfeyrac leaning against each other as they read in the park. Here were a few photos and a postcard from when R had finally dragged Jehan and Eponine to the art museum.

Enjolras tilted his head as he looked at the board. There was only one of him up there, though Grantaire had drawn Enjolras enough times to fill a whole sketch book. It showed Enjolras, painted in yellows, reds and golds, shouting towards the viewer. Grantaire had quickly worked on it as Enjolras lectured at him one day and then completed it later. Even though Enjolras looked angry there was something heroic, god-like about the pose. Eponine had made him stick it on the wall instead of shoving it into a book like all the other many drawings of Enjolras

"Oh," Enjolras said quietly, lifting his hand to gently brush against a drawing of the Musain, "This is what you're doing at meetings when you're in the corner with a sketch book."  
He hand brushed across a picture of Combeferre and a moth before hovering over his single portrait. Grantaire held his breath, waiting for the inevitable annoyed comment but Enjolras was silent and Grantaire almost thought the expression on Enjolras' face was awe. Almost.

"Well yeah. I don't spend the whole meeting drawing crude dicks," Grantaire joked weakly, breaking the spell. Enjolras dropped his hand and turned to face Grantaire. R glanced back down at the messy pile and finally identified the large cardboard signs which were wrapped in the cloth banner. He carefully tugged them out and stood up, offering them to Enjolras who took them gently.

"Thank you," Enjolras told him, "I didn't expect-" he stopped and Grantaire felt hurt and anger well up inside him.  
"Didn't expect me to get them done?" he snapped and Enjolras opened his mouth to argue but Grantaire cut him off, "It might surprise you that I'm not just a drunken time waster."  
"I never said that," Enjolras said with a scowl.  
"But you thought it."  
"I did not," Enjolras said after a moment’s hesitation. R raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips, crossing his arms in a confrontational manner.  
"Well you always get drunk and I didn't know if I could trust you. Fine. I was wrong," Enjolras finally burst out, sounding angry. Grantaire sighed, wishing the confession didn't hurt as much as it did.  
"Well they're pretty shit anyway, Apollo. Maybe you should have got Feuilly to do it," Grantaire said tiredly. Enjolras flushed.  
"Didn't you hear what I just said? God! You never listen! I said: I. Was. Wrong," Enjolras snapped. Grantaire ran a hand through his hair, feeling exhausted. He was too tired for another fight with Apollo.

"Just go," he muttered. Enjolras looked startled.  
"What?"  
"Just go," Grantaire repeated, "I'm too tired to fight and that's all we ever do. I need a shower anyway. You've got what you came for - you don't have to stick around."  
Enjolras flushed and looked away, still clutching the signs.  
"Fine," he finally said stiffly, "I'll go. Thank you for the signs."

Grantaire watched Apollo walk angrily out of the flat, carefully avoiding piles of stuff and the door slammed behind him. He leant against the wall and willed himself not to cry, blinking back tears. He had really messed up this time. It had been so good, almost friendly, before Grantaire had opened his stupid mouth. Now Enjolras hated him more than ever. Grantaire sighed and pulled his top off, chucking it on the floor. The mess didn't really bother him anymore. Not much did.

Later Grantaire received a text from Enjolras.  
 _'Sorry for yelling at you. Really, thank you for the signs. I haven't seen them yet but if they're anything like the art in your room they'll be amazing.'_

Grantaire tried to ignore the butterflies in his stomach the text caused. He pushed his phone away and sternly told himself that Combeferre had probably forced Enjolras to after finding out about the argument but he couldn't quite stop the smile from creeping across his face.

__————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————_ _

Grantaire got his tattoo the day of the protest. It was a water colour tattoo, spreading across the left half of his chest and shoulder. A huge black R was written on his shoulder, running into a splash of colours round to his chest where a quote was written, just above his heart.

_"Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light."_

Jehan had chosen it, the afternoon R had spontaneously decided to get one. The words had fallen out of his mouth without him even thinking about them. It hadn’t meant anything significant but had just sounded beautiful.  
The rest of the afternoon had been spent drinking, laughing and designing a variety of ridiculous tattoos. Most of the designs had involved dicks.  
"After all, that's what you like," Eponine had joked, her words slurring. Grantaire had hit her with a cushion. Grantaire’s subtle shift in sexuality hadn’t come as a shock to his friends but it had hardly been spoken about.

Eventually, after several days’ consideration they had decided on a design and booked an appointment at a tattoo parlour. Both Eponine and Jehan had had to march him in there as he had tried to run as soon as they entered the parlour. The tattoo itself had taken several hours and a lot of pain. R was disappointed when he hadn't even been able to see it; instead it was covered with a sterile bandage.

He stepped out of the tattoo parlour and smiled shakily towards the shiny chairs Eponine and Jehan should have been sitting on but only Jehan was sitting there, expression nervous.  
"Where's Nina?" he said.  
"At prison, paying Bahorel, Feuilly and Courfeyrac's bail," Jehan replied grimacing.  
"What? What happened at the protest?" asked R, quickly becoming alarmed.  
"Some dicks began a riot when Enjolras was speaking. Cosette, Marius and Joly got away but all the others were arrested. Nothing serious – just detained, well, apart from Enjolras who was apparently 'urging the rioters on'," Jehan told him.  
"Sounds like something Enjolras would do," said R and Jehan grimaced at him.  
"I was Combeferre's phone call so I have to pick them up," they said, "but Enjolras got put in a different prison."  
"So I guess I have to pick him up?"  
"Yeah, I've got the address here," said Jehan, rummaging in their pocket and pulling out a crumpled piece of paper and handing it to R.  
"He hates me. Shouldn't I get the others?" Grantaire asked hesitantly. Jehan gave him a judgmental look and sighed.  
"What? It's true!" R protested sadly.  
"Yeah, yeah," said Jehan rolling his eyes.  
"What do you mean?"  
"It's not like he admires your art and your ass- look, forget it," said Jehan sighing, "Just go pick the guy up. We'll get paid back for bail so don't worry about it."  
"Are you sure? We'll probably just end up arguing."  
"Hey - maybe you'll end up releasing some of that pent-up sexual tension, who knows?"  
R gave Jehan a hurt look.  
"I know it's kind of obvious that I find Enjolras att-" he began to protest but Jehan cut him off.  
"That you find him a hot piece of ass. Who doesn't? Go get him lover-boy," they said, shoving R out the parlour door and to a taxi rank.

R sighed as he climbed into the cab and gave the address to the driver who raised her eyebrow.  
"The Police Station?" she asked doubtfully as they began to drive away.  
"Yeah, I've got to pay someone's bail," R explained.  
"You want me to wait for you and your friend once you get out?"  
"That would be great, thanks," replied R, not bothering to correct her on the friend part; he and Enjolras were hardly friends. He fell into silence, watching New York race past.

Paying bail was a lot more complicated than Grantaire had expected and he had to fill in numerous forms before he even got to see Enjolras. When the police officer finally lead him down a long corridor to a cell where Apollo was sat on the bench, glowering at anyone passing.

"Oi, someone's come to get you out," the police officer said, unlocking the cell door.  
Enjolras stood up quickly, wincing slightly when he put weight on his ankle.  
"Combeferre?" he asked hopefully peering into the dark, tiled corridor.  
"Sorry, it's only me," said Grantaire, stepping into view. Enjolras' face fell slightly and he looked more startled than relieved, "Oh, that's good. Hi. Thanks."  
"Don't worry, I know I'm a disappointment," R said with a cynical grin.  
"Don't be so self-deprecating," snapped Enjolras. R raised an eyebrow.  
"I'll be as self-deprecating as I like. After all, it's my right. Free speech and everything like that. You know – it’s what got you arrested today?" he replied sarcastically and Enjolras scowled.  
"Should I be letting him go with you?" said the police officer with a nervous laugh. Grantaire shrugged and Enjolras nodded sullenly. The police gave them a doubtful glance but opened the door, letting Enjolras out.

The yellow-checkered taxi was still waiting outside once they had signed all the many documents and had been allowed to leave.  
"This your friend?" asked the taxi driver familiarly.  
"No," muttered Grantaire as he climbed into the back seat at exactly the same time Enjolras said, "Yes."  
Enjolras gave him a slightly hurt look and R shrugged defensively. The taxi driver gave them a surprised look, opened her mouth, then closed it - changing her mind.  
"You don't like me," he explained like it was obvious.  
"I do like you," said Enjolras looking hurt.  
"All we ever do is argue, Apollo. You called me a cynical, drunken, talentless asshole the other night," pointed out Grantaire.  
"Don't call me Apollo," Enjolras told him and then sighed and looked away, "It wasn't true. I was angry, I shouldn't have said it."  
"Nah, it was true," said Grantaire glancing out of the car window at the traffic speeding past.  
"It wasn't! You aren't a talentless asshole; you can paint, you can do martial arts and you can speak about six languages. I'm sorry I said it."  
"You sound like you're reciting a list. Anyway - the fact I might not be completely talentless, though an asshole, doesn't change the fact you don't like me."  
"Don't be so pedantic. It’s not a list – your banners and signs were the best at the protest. You aren't an asshole and I do like you; you're one of Les Amis. I consider you one of my friends, even if the feeling isn't returned," said Enjolras, sulkily.  
Grantaire sighed and quietly replied, "Of course it is. I wouldn't have come to bail you out otherwise." He was surprised by the fact that Enjolras considered him one of Les Amis and couldn't stop a small smile appearing on his face so he stared out of the window. Apollo, who R admired - revered almost, apparently sort of liked Grantaire.

The pair fell into silence until the cab turned a sharp corner, sending Enjolras bumping into R who winced at the impact to his still sore shoulder.  
"Sorry," said Enjolras then noticing the expression of pain on Grantaire's face asked hurriedly, "What's wrong? Are you hurt?"  
"I'm fine. It's just a tattoo I got earlier today," explained R, pulling up his t-shirt sleeve to reveal the bandages.  
"You got a tattoo?" asked Enjolras, sounding slightly strangled.  
"Yeah, across my shoulder and my chest," he explained, lowering his sleeve.  
"Oh," replied Enjolras, his tone frustrated and what Grantaire quickly interpreted as slightly disapproving. R rolled his eyes.  
"I get that my money could have been better spent by giving it to charity and that a tattoo is permanent and getting one at my age is a decision I will have to live with for the rest of my life, etc, etc," he said, annoyed at the inevitable disapproval.

"No, no," said Enjolras quickly, "I don't disapprove of tattoos. I like tattoos, tattoos are fine."  
"Oh, sorry," said R, glancing at Enjolras who had gone a bit red, "You got any of your own?"  
"Uh, no. I don't really like needles," Enjolras said, going redder. Grantaire gave him an incredulous look.  
"You, the great Apollo who isn't scared of the government, is scared of needles?" he asked doubtfully. Enjolras glare at him. He did that a lot.  
"Don't call me Apollo. And of course I'm not scared of them. I just don't like stabbing thin spikes of metal into my veins. It's disgusting."  
Enjolras have an involuntary shiver and R gave a half smile.  
"You so are scared of them," he teased, elbowing Enjolras lightly.  
"I'm not!" R burst out laughing at Enjolras' desperate protests and even Enjolras gave a small laugh.  
"Fine, maybe I'm a bit scared of them," he admitted and gave R a slight smile. R returned it with a lopsided grin. They looked at each other for a bit longer than normal, unused to actually having eye contact which wasn't hostile. Eventually Enjolras dropped his gaze awkwardly to his hands. R stared at him for a moment longer before glancing out of the window again and biting his lip.  
"Hey, maybe you do like me a bit after all," he said casually, purposefully baiting Enjolras, and was pleased with Enjolras' affronted glare and incredulous response, "I've already told you I do!"  
"We argue all the time," R pointed out, half-smiling at Enjolras' beautiful frustration.  
"You start it!"  
"That's childish."  
"See - you're so frustrating!" said Enjolras, throwing his hands up in mock annoyance.  
"I know. I take pride in being annoying. It's one of my talents - you can add it to your list."  
"You aren't annoying," Enjolras told R gently, "You're just confusing. You don't take anything seriously even though you're amaz- really good at everything."  
"Is that a compliment?" R asked, confused by how confusing and non-serious didn't constitute as annoying.  
"No. Yes. I don't know. It's just a fact. You're like no one I've-" Enjolras started to explain but Grantaire suddenly recognised the street and leant forward to talk to the taxi driver.

"Stop here, thanks," he told her and she nodded and the cab drew to a halt. Enjolras clambered out of the car, carefully not putting any weight on his ankle as Grantaire paid the driver.  
"I know it's not really my place," she said conspiratorially, "But I would say you guys are definitely friends, maybe more."  
R shook his head. "In my dreams," he told her, glancing at Enjolras who had started rooting in his bag for his keys.  
"Whatever you say," the cab driver says, "But the sexual tension's there."  
R gave a bitter laugh and tried not to feel hope or pain as he tipped her and climbed out to join Enjolras who gave him a strained look.  
"What's funny?" he asked.  
"Nothing. Just the cab driver got the wrong impression," R told him and Enjolras was left looking confused as R strode towards the front door.

_————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————_

They were jumped on as soon as they entered the now-extremely-cramped apartment shared by Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac. Bahorel, Feuilly and Bossuet all looked extremely battered and bruised while Joly and Combeferre swarmed around them, applying bandages and ice packs where necessary. Cosette was manning the first aid kits, handing out whatever was needed while Eponine, Jehan and Marius sat watching. Courfeyrac bounded up to them looking relieved.  
"Oh thank god, we we're getting worried," he told them, "Enj, you hurt?"  
"No, I'm fine," Enjolras said quickly.  
"He's hurt his ankle," Grantaire informed Courfeyrac, who gave Enjolras an exasperated look.  
"I haven't," Enjolras said angrily, glaring at R.  
"Yes you have. You've been limping the whole way up here," R told him, "Did you think I wouldn't notice your hobbling?"  
The unsaid 'yes' hung in the air and Enjolras looked away, scowling like a little kid. Courfeyrac grabbed Enjolras' arm and lead him over to the couch which Bahorel, Feuilly and Bossuet sat being fussed over.  
"We've told you before; if you get hurt, tell us so 'Ferre can fix it. You can sit on the injured-people sofa," Courfeyrac said, forcing Enjolras to sit down.

Eponine grabbed Grantaire's arm and gave him a meaningful look, one that meant 'I need to talk to you about something important ASAP.' He followed her and Jehan into the corridor where she began to talk quietly in Italian, glancing worriedly at the group in the lounge.  
"I saw Lord Montparnasse," she told him in a whisper, "The prison I was at was near the city centre and I saw him coming out of a shop when the taxi was waiting at the traffic lights."  
"Lord Montparnasse of Munet-Bruyeres? The one your parents hung around with?" asked R, horror blooming inside him.  
"No, the other one. What do you think?" Eponine said sarcastically, "The one who should definitely not be in New York right now. The one who should be in hiding. Unless, of course, he worked with Patron-Minette."  
"But Patron-Minette hate the royal family," pointed out Jehan. Eponine shook her head.  
"They hate - hated the King. They want to kill R. But no threats have ever been made on any other members of the royal family. I checked," she explained, "Your father was really unpopular; too stubborn and lenient for a lot of Royals. I know my parents hated that he worked with Lemarque instead of just throwing her out. Munet-Bruyeres had a lot of their privileges revoked when it came to about factories revoked about five years ago. The Montparnasses would be pretty bitter about that."  
"How would find us here?" asked R incredulously. Eponine shrugged.  
"I don't know. Javert wouldn’t to suspect someone like Montparnasse," she said anxiously, biting her lip, "What are we going to do?"  
"Call Javert and tell him," said Jehan quickly.  
"And what? Be forced to leave New York? Go back to a palace full of people who might want to kill us. Great idea," said R bitterly. Jehan gave him a hurt look.  
"Don't be like that. Are you sure it was Montparnasse?"  
"Yes. I'd recognise that bastard anywhere. I spent enough time around him whenever I visited my parents," Eponine told them.  
"We'll keep our heads low," Grantaire suggested, "It's the best we can do. We barely look anything like we did when we left Lithicona, we've got an established life and one of us is a new gender. New York is huge and we aren't even sure if Montparnasse is working for Patron-Minette."  
"I wouldn't put it past him," grumbled Eponine, "But you're right. Just keep pretending."  
"I'm not sure," muttered Jehan but they were obviously outvoted.

="Oi, you three whispering in the corner," said Musichetta who had stuck her head out of the kitchen, "Get those cute butts in here and help me with the drinks and food. I know I'm the best cook but it doesn't mean I don't need help occasionally."  
"And here I thought you were perfect," sighed Courfeyrac, helping to prop up a still-sulking Enjolras' ankle as Combeferre wrapped a bandage round it.  
"She is," said Joly and Bossuet in unison, glaring threateningly at Courfeyrac.  
"I swear that's creepy," Courfeyrac said, "Does anyone else find the whole in-sync thing creepy? You're like those twins from the Shining, only male, violently non-identical and slightly incestuous."

Grantaire lost the reply as he entered the kitchen chuckling. A few moments later there was a crash, a high-pitched shriek from Courfeyrac, swearing from Bossuet and the calming voice of Combeferre desperately trying to take control of the situation, combined with background laughter from Bahorel and Feuilly. Musichetta rolled her eyes at Jehan, Nina and R, her bangles clinking musically as she handed them trays of colourful cocktails.  
"Thank god I'm usually in here or behind the counter. I get enough of that sort of stuff at home. They're like little kids but I love them," she told them, glancing fondly at the kitchen door, "Now go serve the drinks and let Mama 'Chetta get food ready." She blew a kiss at them and shoved them out of the cramped kitchen which had started to smell amazing.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

It's funny how life can suddenly change completely due to one tiny event. It's something that could happen to anyone; too much ice on the road, impulse-buying a lottery ticket or getting too drunk one day at a party.

For one of those moments to happen once is often considered unfortunate but twice? That's just unfair. Especially for R, Jehan and Eponine who's lives had already been turned upside down so dramatically you could hardly say they were the same people anymore. But that's how life works, especially if you have a professional terrorist group after you.

Grantaire saw Babet in Central Park one Saturday evening. He was drunk, of course he was - having just had yet another argument with Enjolras that afternoon about prisoner's rights. It had been short and heated, quickly becoming personal. Eventually R had walked out, after a particularly vicious comment from Enjolras. He had later gotten a text, a quick apology but by that time he was already drunk and he hadn’t even read it properly.

Central Park wasn't far from the Musain and Grantaire usually went there when he needed to be alone after the busy, familiar atmosphere of the Musain. It was his way of distancing himself from the group, just a bit, a way to try and not get too emotionally involved although deep down he knew he already was.

He was leaving the Park, on his way to a bar or his flat - he didn't know - when he walked past someone hauntingly familiar. The man looked so familiar that R slowed down, frowning in recognition as they approached each other on the sidewalk. The man didn't look up at him until they were nearly past one another but as soon as he did, R felt sick. He recognised the face of the Thenardier's butler, Babet, who had only appeared whenever the Thenardiers had come to court. Their appearance had usually been chaotic but their visits were seldom. Still R knew, with an absolute certainty, this was Babet and that it couldn't just be a coincidence. R sped up, ducking his head as he walked past and drew up the hood of his worn green hoodie.

His biggest mistake though was turning back, just glancing back for one moment. Babet had stopped where they had passed each other and was staring after him, his expression cold and curious. R felt panicked but forced himself to look back down and keep walking steadily, not running until he was sure he was out of sight.

All the way back to his flat he felt like he was being followed. His heart almost stopped at every car that flashed past, he felt like every shadow in every alley was hiding someone that would attack him. He kept hearing footsteps, but every time he glanced back there was no one there. It was only when he had almost reached home that he caught sight of a swirl of dark coat, slipping into an alleyway. Desperately, R tried to stem his panicked, too-fast breathing and kept running.

He almost flew up the stairs to the seventh floor where he threw open the door. Eponine was lounging on the sofa while Jehan was perched on the window sill, almost falling onto the fire escape. They both looked up as he came running in.  
"You're back early - Enjolras wanted to apologi-" Jehan began but R shook his head, cutting him off.  
"We have to go. Now," he told them, panting slightly.  
"Why? What's happened?" said Eponine, standing up and grabbing her phone.  
"Babet - your parent's butler. I saw him and he recognised me. I think he followed me. We need to go," R explained. Eponine swore and Jehan hugged their notebook, looking scared.  
"Where?" they asked.  
"Marius and Cosette's?" Eponine suggested but R shook his head.  
"They're out for a romantic dinner or something. Bossuet, Joly and Musichetta are also out."  
"Then it's Bahorel and Feuilly's or Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras'," Jehan said, stuffing things into their pockets while closing and locking the windows.  
"Combeferre's is closer - we'll go there," Eponine said decisively. Jehan nodded and R sighed, tensions too high to think of anything else.  
"Fine. But we need to get a taxi - we'll be too slow on foot if someone is following us," he agreed reluctantly, realising that whichever way it turned out would be the end of his life in New York.

_————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————_

Grantaire was surprised that Combeferre actually let them into the flat. The three of them must have looked mad; Jehan in tears, Eponine swearing angrily in Italian and French while Grantaire was silent and surly. To be honest, he didn't really let them in - he opened the door and Eponine barged past, dragging Jehan behind her. Jehan collapsed onto the worn red sofa, sobbing quietly as Grantaire followed them. Combeferre looked at the group, shocked, eyes wide behind his glasses in a manner which was almost comical.

_"What the fuck are we going to do now?"_ Eponine shrieked at R. Once the initial cold panic had worn off she had replaced it with anger. Grantaire had replaced it with numbness and cold dread. He shrugged helplessly, feeling desperate. He felt like screaming or collapsing but he couldn't. There was a lump in his throat which meant he could hardly breathe, let alone cry or shout. He had to sort out the problem - his friends lives depended on it but he didn't know how. After all, it was his fault that they were being tracked. Both Eponine and Jehan could have a chance if it wasn't for him.

_"I don't know,"_ he muttered in Italian, not looking at her. Every time Jehan sobbed, Grantaire felt like he was about to puke with guilt. Eponine looked slightly crazy, a terrified gleam in her eyes.  
"What the hell is going on?" asked Courfeyrac as he entered the room, attracted by the commotion. Combeferre shrugged. He had migrated immediately to the sofa where Jehan sat, ignoring Eponine's yelling and wild gesticulations, and was desperately trying to get Jehan to calm down.  
"Seriously; Nina, R, Jehan? What's wrong?" asked Courfeyrac again, his expression becoming more and more worried. Eponine shook her head desperately and turned back to R.

_"We have to keep trying to call Simplice and Javert!"_ she said weakly. R nodded, even though he knew that it was useless to keep phoning the officials if they weren't there. He couldn't look at his cousin. Eponine shook her head again, barely containing her tears.  
 _"Grantaire, Babet is after us, he has to be. He's going to kill us."_

The use of Grantaire's real name shocked him into silence. It sounded so unfamiliar and wrong and brought back every guilty feeling he had shoved away. He desperately tried to think of a reply, to think of something but there was nothing. His mind was a desert and he was lost and tired.

"It doesn't matter," snapped Eponine, turning her back on Courfeyrac. To his credit, he didn't get angry, just even more worried. There was silence which surprisingly was broken by Jehan who had calmed down somewhat due to Combeferre's soothing murmurs.  
 _"We have to do something. We can't just sit here like ducks, waiting to be hunted down. We're putting our friends in danger as well."_

The realisation that it wasn't only Jehan and Eponine in danger was like a being stabbed. A wave of self-loathing rushed over him as he realised that, of course, the people around him would be targets. His friends would be caught in the crossfire when, inevitably, bullets began to fly. Combeferre, with his calm and kind demeanour; Courfeyrac and his easy friendliness and Enjolras, with his golden hair and beautiful determination. All of them wouldn't be spared by a group which didn't hesitate to kill whoever got in their way. Patron Minette had proved their ruthlessness but Grantaire was still inflicting the danger onto people he cared about.

_"No,"_ said Grantaire finally, shaking his head, _"You're not putting our friends in danger: I am. I'm putting you in danger as well."_ Eponine tried to interrupt, opening her mouth to say something but R held up a hand to stop her, continuing, _"I need to find Patron Minette - to give myself up. That way no one else will get hurt. They're only after me. Maybe I can negotiate."_

Eponine and Jehan stared at him in shocked silence, Combeferre and Courfeyrac shooting each other worried looks. Then Eponine slapped him, hard around the face. Grantaire's head jerked to the side and his cheek stung. The impact brought tears to his eyes but he wiped them away surreptitiously as he brushed his mess of hair back into position. There was a sharp intake of breath from Courfeyrac and Combeferre who were startled by the sudden development. R gingerly touched his cheek and stared at Eponine who was breathing hard, her eyes large and wild, her palm red and her dark hair wild, like her expression.

She looked so different from when the three of them had arrived in New York, all those months ago. Gone were pastel dresses, delicate jewellery and minimal makeup that being a future Duchess had demanded. Now she wore black or grey clothes and chunky, bright bangles with matching vivid lipstick. Her hair style had gone from conserved and neat to permanently and stylishly tousled and she had about four new piercings. Eponine now looked like Nina, no nonsense and a little bit punk. The Eponine who had travelled to New York with Grantaire would never had been able to slap him like that. She had always been fierce but it had grown into a kind of power. Recklessness had changed into lack of fear which only made her stronger.

_"How dare you,"_ Eponine hissed, her voice angry and almost breaking with tears, _“How fucking dare you? For God's sake - do you really think that we're going to let you do something stupid like that? We're you're friends and we love you. Trust me, Patron Minette will be after us as well. They are evil. Anyway, I'm practically next in line after you."_  
 _"After your parents. And if I'm caught they might back away from here. You could be safe.”_  
 _"Yeah right; ruthless, professional killers remember? And I'm probably next on their list after you. Jehan's a target as well. Patron Minette got their parents - I don't think Patron Minette will hesitate to get them."_  
 _"She's right you know,"_ sniffed Jehan, _"We aren't going to let you just die. No matter how much danger it puts us in. We love you Grantaire, and we're not going to leave you. If we go down, we’ll go fighting."_

"There's that name again. Grantaire," exclaimed Courfeyrac, interrupting.  
"Who's Grantaire?" asked Enjolras tiredly, coming into the room. His clothes were rumpled like he'd been sleeping in them and his hair was messy. He looked confused by the angry gathering in his living room - as anyone would be.

"I'm Grantaire," said R, clenching and unclenching his fists slowly. Eponine and Jehan gave him horrified looks and the other three looked confused by the revelation.  
"What - is that your real surname?" ventured Courfeyrac cautiously. Grantaire felt like sobbing or punching something but neither action was going to help him at that moment.  
"R, what are you doing?" asked Jehan nervously, glancing between their three friends who were worried, yet curious.  
"Telling them the truth," R told them, "Their life is in danger - they deserve to know."

There was as sharp intake of breath from Courfeyrac, Combeferre and Enjolras at his words.  
"Is someone trying to kill you?" asked Enjolras, sounded horrified. Grantaire tried to look at him but he couldn't quite bring his eyes to meet the man's shocked expression.  
"Yes. They have been for a very long time," he admitted, staring at the floor. It was very clean, he noted absent-mindedly, especially for a college student apartment. He wondered who did the vacuuming. Possible Combeferre, probably not Courfeyrac. Maybe Joly came round and forced them to do it. That would be very Joly. Grantaire was pretty certain that it wasn't Enjolras; he couldn't imagine Apollo walking round the flat with a vacuum cleaner, patiently hoovering the carpet.

"R, why are people trying to kill you?" pressed Enjolras. There was a mixture of concern and anger in his voice and it sounded like he was only just keeping calm. Of course, he had every right to be angry. Grantaire was putting Enjolras and his friends in so much danger after all.

Finally he choked out, "Nicolas Grantaire."  
"What?"  
"Nicolas Grantaire," he repeated, "It's my full name. Nina's is Eponine Thenardier and Jehan's is Jean Prouvaire."  
"R..." warned Eponine but she was stopped by Jehan who looked up from where they had been sadly examining their hands and spoke.  
"Those aren't our full names."  
"Yeah they are," protested R, raising his eyebrows but Jehan shook their head.  
"No. Our full names, the ones on our birth certificates have everything. I saw mine once."  
"Seriously? How did they fit that shit onto one line?" asked Eponine.  
"Carefully," replied Jehan with a shrug.  
"Okay, I'm still confused," said Courfeyrac, quickly stepping in. Grantaire could see the confusion written on all of their faces. Taking a deep breath he turned to them.  
"Quick review; those aren't our full names, not really. Our real names are-" he turned his head and glanced at Eponine and Jehan, "Are we doing this?"  
"We have to," confirmed Eponine stepping forward, "I want to do my name first though. It's fucking pretentious by the way."

She smiled sarcastically at Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras and spoke in the poshest voice she could put on, "It is a pleasure to meet you. Duchess Eponine Thenardier the second of the province Montercal, ward of Lady Magon and niece of the King at your service." She curtsied daintily at them, her lip curling in distaste.  
Jehan snorted, ignoring the shocked and doubtful expressions of Courfeyrac, Combeferre and Enjolras. Grantaire raised an eyebrow and rolled his eyes at his cousin.  
"I don't think that the second part is on the birth certificate," they pointed out.  
"Yeah, yeah. I thought I might as well do the Full Monty. Anyway, your turn."  
"Oh yeah. Um, Earl Jean Prouvaire the fifth of Munet-Bruyeres and son of the advisor to the King," said Jehan, less bitterly; their voice shaking slightly, especially over the words 'Earl' and 'son'.

Courfeyrac gave an incredulous laugh but Combeferre gave him a warning look. Enjolras was uncharacteristically quiet and Grantaire couldn't bring himself to look at him. He could imagine the distaste on Apollo's face perfectly. Eponine nudged him and Jehan gave him an encouraging look, although their eyes were still bright with recent tears.

"Prince," he mumbled, hoping they wouldn't hear.  
"Sorry?" prompted Combeferre and Grantaire took a deep breath.  
"Prince," he said again, louder and clearer, "I'm Prince Nicolas Grantaire of Lithicona, heir to the throne."  
There was a stunned silence as R stared at the carpet. No one said a word and finally Grantaire couldn't take it anymore.  
"I can't- I can't do this anymore. Please can you and Jehan-" he muttered to Eponine who he saw nod gently out of the corner of his eye.  
"We'll explain," she promised and R swallowed, silently thanking her as he turned towards the door which led to the balcony, not looking up towards Combeferre or Courfeyrac. He carefully avoided the gaze of Enjolras which he could feel burning into him as he closed the wooden door quietly behind him.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

The night air was cold and biting. The chill made Grantaire forget for a moment what Jehan and Eponine were telling Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras. God, they were going to hate him. He stood for everything Les Amis fought against, everything they wanted to change. Not only that, he had lied to them. It would be fair enough that they hated him after everything he had done, everything he was. Grantaire didn't know how he was going to cope with hatred directed towards him in the eyes of Courfeyrac and Combeferre. Of course, he could deal with Enjolras' hatred - he already had to. But it didn't mean it wasn't going to hurt like hell; after all, things had been getting better and R had somehow hoped that they could have at least been friends one day.

R had hoped. Grantaire was going to have to leave R behind.

He fumbled with a cigarette, placing it between his lips and having to flick the lighter twice to have it light up twice as his hands trembled. He wanted a drink but he didn't want to go back into the living room. Anyway, he had been trying to cut down; Joly had been scolding him and Enjolras had been arguing. It wasn't like that mattered anymore.

The whole thing had just been a break, a short time away from being a Prince - being a King. But Grantaire had forgotten that. He had become too involved, become ‘R’ too much and too honestly and he wanted to stay as R. But Grantaire couldn't; he had to return and be Prince Nicolas Grantaire. King Nicolas Grantaire, eventually.  
Or he would die, of course. Either option seemed pretty awful. Grantaire felt tears prick the back of his eyes as he stared at the dim street below him. Up on the top floor balcony, surrounded by Combeferre's many potted plants, there was still the light of the setting sun in the sky but in the streets, it was dark, lit by only the occasional street lamp. Grantaire was unaware of time passing as he smoked, letting his thoughts wash over him like cold sea water. It stung his eyes in the form of salty tears which he tried to hold back.

The door opened behind him eventually, letting some of the warmth from the flat wash over Grantaire and making him aware of how cold he was. He huddled deeper into his worn, green hoodie and took a drag from his cigarette, not turning round. He assumed it was just Eponine or Jehan come to tell him what their friend’s reactions had been.

"Those will kill you, you know?" said Enjolras, his voice carefully emotionless. Grantaire jumped in surprise as the blonde man joined him, leaning on the correlated iron railings of his balcony. Grantaire didn't reply and Enjolras didn't look at him

"So you're a Prince?" asked Enjolras after several moments’ silence.  
Grantaire let out a bitter laugh and nodded. "Prince Nicolas Grantaire the first of Lithicona," he told Enjolras again, making his voice as pretentious as possible but not quite disguising the quaver in it, "It's awful, I know."  
Enjolras' face hardened and he finally looked Grantaire in the eye. "Was any of it real?" he blurted out angrily, "Anything you've done here? Or was it all just part of your lie?"

Grantaire stared at Enjolras as he processed the words. Then he threw his head back and let out a bitter laugh that turned into a sob halfway. It was like Enjolras' question had pierced the dam of emotions he had been holding back for so long. All the stress and loneliness he felt at hiding his identity tumbled out, as well as the fear he felt at the thought of going back, of being King. And it was fear – Grantaire could see that now.

"For fuck's sake, Enjolras," Grantaire said, his voice cracking, "Of course it was real. Everything was real - realer than anything else has been in my entire life."  
Grantaire knew he should shut up there and then but the dam had been broken and everything just flooded out, he was tripping over words as they fell out of his mouth and confessing everything in some desperate attempt to stop Enjolras from hating him again.

"I love being R. I love having proper friends, I love being an artist. I love the coffee at the Musain. I love volunteering at the gym and kick boxing with the kids, hell - I even love being an alcoholic." Enjolras’ frown deepened and Grantaire backtracked, "Okay, I don't love being an alcoholic. I love having the freedom to be an alcoholic. I love the freedom to smoke, to paint, to make my own mistakes, and God knows I've made plenty, but for some reason you guys forgive me and I don't understand why you do but it's the best thing I've ever had. So, yes it's real. It's so, so fucking real.

"And what hurts most is that I'm going to have to forget it all. Pretend it never happened as I go back and become a stuffy King. I'm going to have to forget everything I think I am and go back to being who I was. I knew that from the moment I landed in New York that it was temporary but I let myself forget. I let myself pretend that I could stay and know I don't know how to go back to being a Prince. I let it become too real. And now it's catching up with me.

"You know, I used to not want to be King because I thought it would be boring and I'd be trapped. But you guys, Les Amis, changed that. Now I'm scared of being King because I'd be a fucking awful King. I'm not organised, I don't care about the people enough and I really, really should not be put in charge of a country. You made me better, I think I’m a better person – I can’t tell, but now I'm going to have to pretend that I haven't changed. I know what's it's like to live now. And how the fuck am I going to give that up? I can't. I'd rather die than be trapped again! I can see how awful it was – how awful I was.

"So yeah, you're kind of right; it was meant to be a lie. But it then wasn't and now I'm terrified because I'm going to have to go back and this time live an actual lie for the rest of my life and I don't think I can do that. You all changed me so much and I'm so fucking in love with you and I don't know what to do because who I am now hates everything I was!"

Grantaire finished, turning away from Enjolras' shocked expression. He didn't want to see his Apollo hate him. Maybe he could go back and pretend that his friends still cared about him; that they didn't hate him. Maybe that would help him survive the long, awful life he had in front of him. Maybe.  
Or he'd die at the hands of Patron Minette. He'd forgotten them in his dread about becoming a Prince again. It was quite likely that he'd never have a chance to be trapped again but somehow, in the state Grantaire's mind was, dying seemed like a better option.

He didn't expect Enjolras' hand on his arm, firmly spinning R around to face him. Grantaire swallowed and desperately hoped he wouldn't start sobbing. Enjolras stared at him intensely for a moment and there was something fiery in his eyes and to Grantaire's great relief it wasn't hatred. He couldn't tell what it was. Enjolras seemed to be absorbing every detail of Grantaire’s face before he finally spoke, decisively and as passionately as he always was.  
"I'm so fucking in love with you too," Enjolras told Grantaire forcefully before reaching up to kiss the taller man, his hand gripping the back of Grantaire’s neck and pressing their lips together.  
It was R, not Grantaire, who kissed him back.

_————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————_

R woke up hours later to the buzzing of his phone. Enjolras shifted beside him, still asleep. Carefully, so as not to wake the post-coital god beside him Grantaire untangled their limbs and slipped out of bed. Enjolras let out the tiniest whimper at the loss of heat but quickly shifted and became comfortable again.  
R smiled fondly at his lover for a moment, still not quite believing it. There was something dream-like and hazy about his memories of hours before. The way Enjolras had panted into his mouth as they had didn’t seem quite real and the hickeys on Enjolras' neck, almost covered by his hair, looked as if they had been painted on. Grantaire could remember every detail so vividly, yet he couldn’t quite let himself believe. He had fantasised the moment too many times but his imagination had been letting him down. The noises his lover had made were indescribable, Grantaire had decided but had taken great pleasure in drawing as many of gasps and moans from Enjolras as he could.  
Enjolras looked so peaceful when asleep, long hair spread out like a golden halo. Grantaire found himself lost, staring in awe at the expression of contentment. It was rare not to see Enjolras angry about something. Then R remembered why he had woken up and began scrambling through his clothes which had been dropped on the floor earlier. He found his phone in his jeans pocket, still vibrating. The caller ID said it was Marius' home phone so he pressed answer, sighing in annoyance at the bad timing.  
"Hey Marius, what is it?" he asked, his tone slightly annoyed.  
"You care about your friend Marius don't you?" replied a refined, unfamiliar voice.  
"Who is this?" Grantaire asked sharply, feeling fear grow inside him.

"You can call me Brujon," the voice told him, "As you might have guessed, I'm from Patron-Minette, your majesty. Now, I'd say to get over to Marius' flat as fast as you can. You see, we're here waiting for you and it would be terrible if Marius and that lovely girlfriend of his got back before you did. We know exactly where you are. I think it's better if you came to us instead of us coming to you, don't you think? That way your little blond toy-boy and his friends won't have to get hurt. My friend, Lord Montparnasse, is very skilled with a knife and it would be such a shame if anything happened to their pretty little faces. Not that he'd have long to linger on it."  
There was an unpleasant laugh and a click as Brujon hung up. Grantaire dropped onto the edge bed, feeling cold and trying to remember how to breathe. He guessed that calling the police was useless. Patron-Minette was lethal, brutal and efficient. If they even suspected that the police were closing in on them they would run straight to Grantaire. And Enjolras.  
Beautiful, brave, determined Enjolras who for some reason had decided to love R. Enjolras who had so much life, so much potential - who just wanted to make the world fair, to make everyone equal. Enjolras; who would readily fight and die for anything he believed in. And for some strange reason he had chosen to believe in R, whispering it his ear as he tangled his hands in R’s hair. Enjolras was in danger because of Grantaire. Enjolras could die because of Grantaire, decades too soon and not having achieved anything of what he planned.  
The phone buzzed in his hand and Grantaire quickly answered. It was Brujon speaking again.  
"In case you need more incentive; if you're compliant we might even be tempted to not go after those two Lithiconian friends of yours. It's just you we want after all. Don't bother calling the police - we'll know and then those three friends of yours will get it. You know the three; the girl who runs the café and her boyfriends? Babet's with them right now."  
He hung up again, not expecting an answer, but Grantaire was already moving, pulling his clothes on. He had no choice. If he lived, or even tried to live, other people would get hurt. Maybe Patron-Minette would hurt them anyway, R knew, but he had to at least try. Sacrificing himself was the only way Grantaire could save people. He had never been a hero – no, that was always Enjolras, but if his friends survived then he would at least come close. As long as his friends, as long as Enjolras, survived his life, his sacrifice was worth something.  
R toyed with the idea of writing a note but decided against it. There was everything and nothing he wanted to say. A note wouldn't help; a note wouldn't say the things that R really needed a lifetime to say to all his friends. A note couldn't convey how grateful he was to them. It would just be painful to write and painful for them to read. Anyway, someone could find it too early and try to stop him, condemning them as well.

R did allow himself to stop by Enjolras side and drop a light kiss on his cheek, careful not to wake him. He brushed Enjolras' hand lightly and whispered, “I love you," before turning to go. It wasn't like a movie; Enjolras didn't murmur unhappily or give any sign he was aware of Grantaire's presence. He just kept sleeping, completely unaware of what Grantaire was about to do. He looked so peaceful and so vulnerable, making R even more determined. Enjolras was strong and could survive without him. Grantaire was weaker and he didn't want to find out if he could survive without Enjolras.

He left the flat quietly but he couldn’t help but look back, many times.

_————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————_

The walk to Marius' was long but too-short at the same time. Grantaire nearly turned back three times, once to leave a note, once to call the police and once just because his feet felt like they wouldn't carry him anymore unless he did. But he just closed his eyes and thought of watching Enjolras sleep peacefully while Brujon's voice hissed eloquent threats into his ear. They couldn't hurt Grantaire physically, not really. He didn't love himself enough for anything they did to him to affect him but he did love his friends. Grantaire already considered himself ugly, scars wouldn't make any difference and as long as he could keep the image of Enjolras safe and asleep in his mind then any pain inflicted wouldn't matter. The only way Patron-Minette could really hurt him was by hurting his friends.  
The door to Marius' flat was swinging open on its hinges but the lights were off. He pushed it open, not sure what to expect. Everything was silent as he made his way down the dark, familiar corridor, photo frames filled with the smiling faces of Marius and Cosette encouraging him to keep going. He heard a movement behind him and turned to see but something heavy connected with the back of his head and he dropped to the floor as consciousness fell away from him.

_————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————_

When R woke up he didn't open his eyes immediately, giving himself a moment to pretend that he was still next to Enjolras and that the fateful phone call had never happened. But his hands had been pulled roughly behind him and tied to the back of the chair he was sitting in, ropes biting into his wrists. There was something warm and wet on his forehead which ached from the blow he had received. Javert had been right; Patron-Minette knew what they were doing. The blow had knocked him out but not caused any serious damage and the knots were too complicated for him to undo, despite training for hostage situations.  
"You can stop trying to undo the ropes. You won't be able to," said a lazy voice. Slowly Grantaire opened his eyes to see a well-dressed, dark haired man smiling at him smugly. He was sitting at Marius and Cosette's dining table, except the chairs were askew and a knife, a gun and a high-tech camera were sitting on it, out of place in the domestic setting.  
"Montparnasse," R said through gritted teeth. The elegant man, barely older than Grantaire gave a slight nod.  
"Lord Montparnasse, to you," he corrected his grin self-satisfied and careless.  
"I thought Patron-Minette was against the royal family?"  
"Oh no, you all got the wrong idea. We work for the royal family, or a particular part of the royal family. A part that really wants you gone and them on the throne," Montparnasse explained.  
"Who?"  
"Hey, no spoilers. Well, I might as well tell you. After all, you won't be around to tell anyone," said Montparnasse with a small laugh. Leaning forward he whispered confidentially, "Your darling aunt and uncle. Got bored of waiting for Daddy to kick the bucket and for you to cop out. So here we are. Turns out that little cousin of yours knew more about your location than he let on...”  
"What did you do to Gavroche?" asked Grantaire, his voice panicked.  
"Nothing, nothing. Calm down, the kid’s fine. Shame though, he didn't even know he was putting his sister in danger when he told mum and dad she was shacking up not in Lithicona, in the City that Never Sleeps. Very clever of you, telling a nine year old."

"Montparnasse, stop telling his majesty all our secrets," said the familiar voice of Brujon from behind R. He tried to turn his head but couldn't see the man. He caught glimpse of a figure standing quietly in the shadows, staring at him.  
"That's Claquesous," explained Brujon, "He's keeping watch; in case you were stupid enough to call the police, which I hope you're weren't. That would be very bad for your friends."  
"I didn't," snapped Grantaire.  
"Good. Then we can begin."

Brujon stepped into his peripheral vision, a flash of navy coat and a hand which reached for the gun on the table. Grantaire winced and the three terrorists laughed.  
"We're not going to kill you just yet," said Montparnasse, turning on the camera as he spoke, "No, we've been told to make a scene - a statement. Our employers never liked your father or you, you see. So we've been told to make sure the whole of Lithicona see how shameful you really are."  
"You'll apologise for your crimes against Lithicona and say your goodbyes. Then I'll blow your brains out and our employers will ascend to the throne, making sure to comfort the country in such a tragic time. Make sure you don't say anything stupid," Brujon told him, pressing the cold barrel of the gun against his head.  
"If I do?" asked R, already knowing the answer. He could hear the smirk in Brujon's voice as he replied, "Well, I know that Montparnasse always fancied a blonde wig."

The words made R shiver and he looked down at his lap. His shirt had rust-coloured spots on his colour and he realised the warm feeling on his forehead must be blood. When he looked up he saw Montparnasse holding the camera, smirking slightly. He felt cold, numb. The realisation he was about to die hadn’t hit him and the panic hadn’t set it  
"Three, two, one, action," he said and the red button on the camera began blinking.

He took a deep breath and felt the gun barrel being pressed insistently into his hair.  
"I would like to apologise," he began, his voice quavering. He paused and Montparnasse raised an eyebrow and nodded, "for my crimes to Lithicona."  
A curl of dark, slightly greasy hair fell into his eyes and he shook his head trying to shake it away. The gun barrel pressed more insistently into his head and Brujon's muffled voice came from behind him.  
"Any last words?"  
Grantaire bit his lip and closed his eyes. There was so much Grantaire needed to say but none of it came to mind. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on breathing

He finally opened his eyes to see Montparnasse staring emotionlessly at him from behind the blinking camera. A man was about to be shot in front of him and he didn't seemed phased at all. Anger bubbled up inside him, breaking apart his composure. All the emotion rose to the surface and he was aware that he had begun to cry, something he had promised himself he wouldn't do.

"I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry," he choked out. The gun was pushed sharply against his head.  
"Language," murmured Brujon.  
"You're about to shoot me through the head, what do you care?" R yelled through the steady stream of tears.  
"For that you get ten seconds," Brujon cruelly said and began to count.  
Grantaire panicked. "I'm sorry - all of you. Ep, Jehan - promise me you'll be okay," he babbled and saw Claquesous move out of the corner of his eye, "I'm sorry I lied to all of you. Enjolras, I love you. Please forgive me, I'm so sor-"  
"Time’s up," said Brujon and the gun clicked. Grantaire took a shaky breath, assuming it was his last, and closed his eyes. He sat up straight and tried not to be sick, desperately wishing, hoping. His life didn’t flash before his eyes; nothing did. He tried to picture his friends, picture Enjolras but all he could see was his own despair.

There was a second click then an unfamiliar voice coldly said, "Put the gun down Brujon."

He opened his eyes to see Montparnasse dropping the camera and reaching for the knife. He never got it as there was a bang and a bullet crashed into Montparnasse's shoulder, sending him crashing backwards onto the floor.  
"I've seen what you can do with a knife," the voice said, echoing strangely, "You really think I'd let you get your hands on one?"  
"Claquesous, what are you doing?" Brujon asked, his words laced with what could have been fear.  
"Special Agent Le Cabuc, to you," the voice told him, "Of the Lithiconian Police Force. Police are on the way so I’d drop the gun if I were you."

Slowly, reluctantly, the cold pressure of the gun barrel disappeared from the back of Grantaire's head and he gave a sigh of relief, dropping his head and closing his eyes. Several minutes of checkmate passed, silent apart from Montparnasse’s whimpers.

Then the door slammed open and a group of armed police officers burst through the doors.  
"You're late. The Prince could be dead by now. At least tell me you caught the other fuckers. I gave you their locations," snapped Le Cabuc.  
"Yes sir, sorry sir," said one of the men, snapping handcuffs onto Brujon and leading him away. Grantaire didn't open his eyes.  
"Get the medics in, this one's been shot," came a woman's voice from opposite him and there was a moan from Montparnasse. He felt hands by his; untying the ropes and eventually his hands were free. He opened his eyes and began to rub feeling back into them but he felt completely cold, completely numb.

Someone knelt beside his chair. He glanced up to see a police man.  
"Your majesty, you hurt?" the man asked, peering at his forehead.  
"Gran- R, please," said R, shaking his head. The man nodded and stood up, taking R's arm, helping him to stand up.  
"Come with me please. Captain Javert is downstairs and he will take you back to Lithicona," the man said, leading him out of the flat which was swarming with the New York police force. Le Cabuc stood in the middle, dressed in a long black coat, surveying the situation.

"The owners of the place are downstairs as well. I doubt they're going to be very happy about this," commented the officer, breaking into Grantaire's reverie as the pair stood in the elevator.  
"Cosette and Marius?" asked Grantaire.  
"Yeah. You know 'em? They called us earlier ‘cause they saw lights on and people moving about. Few minutes later Le Cabuc contacted us with his location."  
Grantaire could only imagine how panicked Marius and Cosette would have been; probably assuming it was Marius’ Grandfather until they had heard about R’s disappearance. He hadn’t wanted to put his friends through that.

The elevator doors slid open and there was the flash of camera lenses, making R wince and look down. The police officer lead him through the crowd gently, R staring down at his scuffed shoes as reporters shouted questions. It wasn't a huge crowd, less than ten, but to Grantaire who was shaken tired it was exhausting.

"Sorry, should have warned you about that," said the police-officer.  
"No problem," muttered Grantaire, spotting Javert standing in his official navy coat near the post boxes. It was strange to see the official looking man in such a mundane setting. He approached the pair and took Grantaire's arm roughly.  
"Thank you Officer. I will escort the Prince to the car from here," he said authoritatively and the police officer nodded and dropped his hand from Grantaire's arm. Javert led him quickly to the doors, ignoring the reporters and not saying a word.

As soon as they were out of the building he turned to Grantaire.  
"You're hurt," he stated, spotting the blood on R's forehead.  
"Not really," said R with a shrug, too focused on trying to find his friends in the small crowd to listed to Javert.  
"We'll get you to the airport and we'll have someone there deal with it," Javert told him. R came to a stop, frowning. Javert still held his arm firmly and tried to pull him along but R stood his ground, finally looking up at the man.  
"What do you mean - the airport? What about my stuff? What about Jehan and Ep?"  
"You can get new stuff. Jean and Eponine don't matter as much, they can come back later. Maybe it's best that Eponine Thenardier stays here for a while; the Thenardiers aren’t going to welcome after this comes out. She may have nothing to go back to."  
"I don't care. I need to see them before I go," R told Javert who gave him an angry glare.  
"Control yourself; you're going to be King. No you don't need to see them. You need to get back to Lithicona as soon as possible."  
"I need to talk to my friends first," he insisted. Javert shook his head and began pulling him along to a black car which was parked just down the street. The reporters had followed them out and were snapping picture after picture, still shouting questions which were just ignored.

They were about to reach the car when Grantaire heard someone shout his name.  
"R!" Other voices joined it and he glanced up, looking around desperately. He spotted them; Marius, Cosette, Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras. They were all trying to get his attention, shouting and waving but Javert was dragging him forcefully away. It was only when Enjolras started to run towards him that he managed to pull away from Javert's vice-like grip and began running unsteadily towards the blond man.

They slammed into one another on the pavement. Enjolras gripped his forearms and pulled him close, embracing him. It looked like he had been crying and his hair hadn't been combed.  
"R, you fucking idiot. I thought you were dead," Enjolras choked out, burying his face in R's neck and wrapping his hands in his hair.  
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. They were going to kill you if I didn't go," muttered R, desperately clasping at Enjolras' waist, hands fisting in Enjolras’ t-shirt. He didn’t ever want to let go.  
"I just woke up and you were gone! Then Marius and Cosette called saying there were people in their flat and then police were swarming around. What was I supposed to think? You didn't even leave a note!" Enjolras told him angrily but his hands were gentle on Grantaire’s neck.  
Grantaire was vaguely aware of Combeferre and Courfeyrac joining to them but he was too busy trying to inhale Enjolras' smell to pay any attention to them.  
"I'm sorry," he repeated quietly, his voice cracking. There were a few camera flashes and he dimly heard Javert yelling at him but it didn't matter. His Apollo was safe.

He felt a hand on his arm, wrenching him away violently. Javert looked angry and began to pull Grantaire away, digging his nails into R's skin. The police officer from before had taken his other arm, less forcefully, but also was pulling him towards the Lithiconian car. Enjolras looked angry and started running towards R but a police officer stepped in his way. Courfeyrac pulled him back before he could punch the man. Combeferre dodged past the police officer and began running to R who was stumbling and fighting against.

"Nina and Jehan are angry," he told R, panting and rushed, "but they want to remind you that Lemarque will be on your side. They know you've survived already – Cosette is on the phone to them. But Lemarque is on your side? I don't know what it means, sorry. We’re angry at you but thank god you’re okay."  
Grantaire nodded, understanding the meaning, "Thanks 'Ferre. Tell them I'm sorry and tell Enjolras that I-" he was cut off as they slowed and the car door open. Javert roughly pushed his head down, shoving him into the car.  
"I will. I promise. We'll be in touch," Combeferre yelled, picking up on what R had been going to say, as the police officer stepped in front of him and began crowding him, pushing him away from the car.

He twisted round, looking out of the back window, desperately trying to catch a glance of his friends for maybe the last time - if Lemarque couldn't help him escape after all. Combeferre was nearest, just standing and watching, his brow furrowed as he watched the car drive away. Cosette was in the background, talking hurriedly on her phone. Marius and Courfeyrac were both holding Enjolras back who had stopped struggling and was standing still, leaning towards the car. His face was a mixture of angry, desperate and hopelessly sad and there was Grantaire's blood in his hair but he still looked like an avenging god. R tilted his head, trying to see him but the car turned a corner and he lost sight of Les Amis for good.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Grantaire stared down at the paper in front of him, brow furrowed. He had already read through it; Javert instructing him on how exactly how to say each word. It eloquently told the country that he was glad to be back in Lithicona, happy to accept the throne and continue his father’s legacy. It was lies; Grantaire agreed with none of it.

"Your majesty, we'll be live in one minute," said the nervous looking cameraman. He looked a bit like Marius, his dark hair windswept and a permanently worried expression. Javert luckily had not recognised the young man holding Enjolras back and Grantaire had been careful not to mention Marius at all. Still – he didn’t look at General Gillenormand with the same grudging respect anymore. He had heard too many stories about the man’s harsh demeanour towards his Grandson to like him.  
Grantaire smile kindly at the cameraman and the man nodded, scurrying away. Of course Javert had probably banned the man from talking to him, as he had done with nearly all the palace staff - just in case they would be convinced to carry messages for R. But Javert couldn't stop officials such as Lemarque from having ‘consultations’ and R had convinced Javert to let him call Simplice to 'thank her for all her help'. The results of those two, very important conversations seemed to be burning a hole in the pocket of his official-jacket.

"You know what you're supposed to do," said Javert, a warning tone in his voice. Grantaire nodded and looked away, trying to hide his smile. He knew exactly what he was going to do. Javert must have taken his glance for apprehension because he spoke authoritatively as he told the Prince, "It's for the best, you know. Leave all those people behind. As future king you're above them and you have to act like it - no matter how difficult it might be." Grantaire nodded, his mouth a thin line. It was certainly for the best but Javert had no idea how wrong he was. Grantaire wasn’t above his friends, not in the slightest.

"And we're on in three, two, one - action!" said the cameraman and there was a slight whirr as the camera started rolling. Grantaire took a deep breath and began to speak steadily, just as Javert had instructed.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of Lithicona," he said, his voice emotionless, "I am pleased to announce that the terrorist threat of Patron-Minette has passed. The threat against the Royal family is over and the perpetrators have been placed in prison and their families seen to." He pictured Gavroche's sad face as he wandered around the palace with Rene and Michel in tow, and winced at the cold words. He continued his voice shakier than before, "I, as Prince of Lithicona, am honoured by the support from the people although it will not be necessary anymore."

Grantaire saw Javert's face pale at the change in the script. Smiling openly now, he reached into his pocket and pulled the piece of note paper out. The official speech was written on official cream paper while his had been scrawled in biro on a dogged bit of A4.

"Sorry - I've never been one for formal bullshit like this," he told the camera, tossing the official script away and unfolding his speech, "Let me restart."

"Ladies, Gentlemen and people of other gender persuasions,

"I'm sure you all expected me to how I'm pleased to take the throne and all that stuff. Well, that's what I was supposed to say but the thing is - I can't. It's not true.  
The truth is I am abdicating. I can't take the throne. I am not a ruler. I was never supposed to be King. I am an artist, a boxer, a dancer, an alcoholic, a coffee addict but not a King.

"Seriously, I would be awful at ruling. My brother could have been a good King, maybe but I can never be the ruler Lithicona deserves. In fact, anyone currently in the Royal Family would; which is why I propose Lithicona join the modern world and we turn this almost-dictatorship a constitutional monarchy. Lithicona deserves someone who can rule properly; someone like President Lemarque - not an irresponsible teenager such as me. Most importantly, Lithicona deserves someone whose heart is with Lithicona.

"Mine is not. My heart is in New York, with the man that I love.

"That's another reason why I shouldn't rule. All the rumours are true: I am gay and for a country that hasn't legalised same-sex marriage yet, I think having a gay King would be a pretty big leap. Lithicona is quite a homophobic nation and literally no one would feel comfortable with me in charge. Also, I'm probably not having biological children anytime soon and that would be a bummer for the continuation of my royal lineage.

"Most importantly, though: I do not want to be King. It may sound selfish but is it selfish to want to live my life the way I choose? I don't agree with anything this monarchy stands for and quite simply I do not want to live with the responsibility of a country. I'd much rather go back to being a penniless artist in New York because I was much happier. It is my life and I will only live it once, so I want some choice in it. I want to be able to do the things I want to do and being King is not one of those.

"Goodbye Lithicona. I wish every member of this proud country a bright future. It just won't be led by me."

Grantaire finished his speech and stood up, refolding the paper and placing it in his pocket. Javert, who for the last minute had been desperately gesturing at the camera to stop filming, had turned an impressive shade of furious red. He looked livid and Grantaire could have sworn that he was frothing at the mouth, his eyes in danger of popping out of his head.

The camera had not stopped filming Grantaire as he stood and nodded awkwardly at the Captain of the Royal Guard.  
"I'm sorry Javert but I've made my choice," he said, looking straight at the other man.  
"Your father would be so ashamed," hissed Javert cruelly.  
"One thing I’ve learned recently is that I'm not my father."  
"I can see that, he would have rather died than pull a shameful stunt like that."  
"I know. He did," replied R, biting his lip, "And unlike my father I don't plan to die unhappy due to a misplaced sense of pride and bitter relatives. Have a good life Javert."

With that Grantaire walked out of the stateroom door, leaving his life as Prince of Lithicona behind him. This time he didn't look back.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

If R had to choose the happiest moment in his life it might have been when he climbed of the plane, back in New York. Barely before he had stepped off the stairs leading to the ground, Jehan had already thrown themselves at R and violently hugged him. Their long red hair had fallen over Grantaire's shoulder as he stumbled backwards but he quickly regained his balance and hugged Jehan back, laughing. Jehan had been like an affectionate and brightly-dressed monkey, clinging onto R until Eponine had stormed up and reluctantly Jehan had let go.

"You and I are going to have serious words about self-sacrifice. We saw the video Montparnasse took," Eponine had told him angrily before pulling him into a tight hug, "It's really fucking good to have you back though."  
She had hugged him until Gavroche appeared at the plane door, followed by Rene and Michel who were hand in hand. She squealed and let go, rushing towards her brothers with a look of pure joy. Before he had boarded the plane back to New York Javert had coldly told him that there was not a place for the children of blood traitors in court, though Azelma had been permitted to stay, and that if R was going he might as well take the boys with him.

He had been hugged by everyone; Courfeyrac like a joyful puppy, Bahorel and Feuilly both possibly breaking ribs, Joly, Musichetta and Bossuet hugged him all at once having perfected the multi-person embrace long ago. Marius hugged him slightly awkwardly but with enough sincerity to make up for it, quietly asking him how his Grandfather had been while Cosette had barely reached his neck but her enthusiasm made up for it. Combeferre's hug had been a moment of calm among the delighted squeals and fierce hugs. As he had drawn away he had smiled, adjusting his glasses and told R, "It's good to have you back. We missed you."  
"Yeah I had to paint signs for a protest and they weren't half as good as yours," said Feuilly slapping him on the back and possibly knocking out a few teeth.  
"We didn't get arrested this time though," said Enjolras with a half-smile, stepping forwards. He looked nervous, in his tight-fitting red coat, arms clasped as he smiled shyly at R. It was an unfamiliar look on Apollo's face.  
"Hey," he said quietly to Grantaire.  
"Hey," R said back, a little breathlessly as he took in Enjolras, feeling slightly dazed at the sight of Apollo. He hadn’t thought he would ever see Enjolras again and now R’s heart and stomach seemed to be doing back flips.  
"I saw your speech in Lithicona," began Enjolras cautiously.  
"And you were wondering if the man in New York was you?" asked Grantaire with a slight smile. Enjolras nodded, stepping closer, and R shrugged, unable to supress his smile.  
"Sorry to disappoint, it was Combeferre."  
"That's my boyfriend you motherfucker!" yelled Courfeyrac jokingly and he grabbed Combeferre's hand who laughed.  
"Oh," said Enjolras, his forehead creasing as he stepped away, "Okay-"  
"I'm joking, of course it was you. Who else would it be?" said Grantaire pulling Enjolras gently closer. A look of relief swept across Enjolras face and he gave a shaky laugh.  
"Okay, good. That's good. Can I- can I kiss you now?"  
"Please do," replied Grantaire, a little breathlessly. Enjolras leant up and kissed him, wrapping his arms around R's neck. They stood there, pressed together and their friends cheered. Enjolras smiled into Grantaire's mouth and he was ninety percent sure that Courfeyrac and Cosette were both taking pictures but he didn't really care.

It was good to be home.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Yes, that would probably be his top moment. There were lots of other contenders of course; the time he visited Machu Picchu with Les Amis, Combeferre and Courfeyrac's wedding, Gavroche's eleventh birthday and his face when he saw that Grantaire and Feuilly had redesigned his room to look like the TARDIS, a thousand movie nights, boxing with Bahorel, selling his first painting, drunkenly discussing fashion with Cosette and Jehan in Central Park that one time, baking a cake for Joly's birthday with Musichetta and Bossuet, visiting Washington to help Les Amis protest sending troops into Iraq and even tiny moments where Grantaire was curled up with a still sleeping Enjolras.

Of course, there had been some less good moments. R still drank too much and the thought of his Father and brother still ached, there was the time Jehan had been put into hospital by the bigoted douchebag who had taken offense at Jehan's skirt and pronouns, the time Michel had fallen of his bike and broken his leg and the occasional reporter bringing up bad memories. R and Enjolras still fought a lot especially when Grantaire was being particularly cynical but at least their fights were accompanied by violent make-up sex now and then sensibly discussing the issue once their anger had been let out, instead of surly silence for days on end like it had been before. There were still nightmares and Grantaire sometimes caught himself glancing behind him, terrified someone would come to drag him away from his happily ever after but there was never any one there.

He glanced around their small room, face buried in his boyfriend’s hair. The walls were covered with pictures of them, paintings by R and random things that had accumulated. Neither of them were particularly tidy people. R's easel was shoved into one corner, opposite Enjolras messy, crowded desk. It was a good room; light and airy and filled with memories. It was filled with friends, art and good moments.

R had a life time to fill it with more.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr at stars-shone-through-his-soul.tumblr.com come say hi!  
> This was nearly called 'An Artist Formerly Known as a Prince' so count yourself lucky.


End file.
